


mine honor is my life (both grow in one)

by aliveanddrunkonsunlight



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Canon Universe, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Jousting, POV Alternating, Slow Burn-ish, knights!, melee, tourney circuit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2020-10-20 20:02:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20681126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliveanddrunkonsunlight/pseuds/aliveanddrunkonsunlight
Summary: Brienne travels the tourney circuit, where she meets the infamous Jaime Lannister.The only one she recognizes is Jaime Lannister. Heat rises up the back of her neck. It was nearly impossible to be unaware of him, he was thought to be the best swordsman in Westeros. Years ago, she’d seen him fight in a tournament. His daring and footwork drew gasps from the crowd as he easily defeated three men, stole the hearts of many of the noble ladies in attendance, and, if the rumors were true, at least one lady’s virtue that night.His green eyes shine even brighter among the gray clouds which have descended on the tourney pitch. He smiles at her, which is both unnerving and charming at once.





	1. Bitterbridge

**Author's Note:**

> Within the book canon timeline, this occurs during Robert's reign as King. In order for this to occur before any of the events of the books, we would have to age Brienne up slightly. Jaime is 30ish to Brienne's 19/20. Jaime is the golden lion who is coming to the end of his tourney days, while Brienne is just beginning hers.
> 
> Thanks to elizadunc for looking this over! The title comes from Richard II.
> 
> PS - The rating will get boosted to M at a later date.

The rain starts. No sprinkles or light rain, but a sudden downpour. The droplets bounce off the metal of Brienne’s helm, making a cacophony of pings and clangs as she moves across the tourney field, surveying her remaining competitors. She nearly removes her helmet to better her field of vision, but she has only been on the tourney circuit a short while and is afraid revealing herself may result in being disqualified.  


Squinting through the rain, all she can see is crimson. There are three of them left, clad in armor with lion’s heads on the shoulders, removing whatever doubt she might have had as to which house they represent. The only one she recognizes is Jaime Lannister. Heat rises up the back of her neck. It is nearly impossible to be unaware of him, he was thought to be the best swordsman in Westeros. Years ago, she’d seen him fight in a tournament. His daring and footwork drew gasps from the crowd as he easily defeated three men, stole the hearts of many of the noble ladies in attendance, and, if the rumors were true, at least one lady’s virtue that night.  


He looks older. Perhaps it’s the patchy beard on his face, but it does not take away from his beauty, instead it makes him all the more handsome. His hair falls to his shoulders, the golden color darkening in the rain as it sticks to his forehead. His green eyes shine even brighter among the gray clouds which have descended on the tourney pitch. He smiles at her, which is both unnerving and charming at once. He flexes his right hand, which is flecked with mud and possibly blood, but he does not step forward to fight her. Instead, his two bannermen move towards her.  


Brienne tears her gaze away from Jaime and tightens her grip on her sword. They advance on her quickly, but perhaps she can use it to her advantage. They expect little of her, she realizes. As their grimaces draw closer, she spins around, using her blunted mace to knock one man to the ground and unsheathes her longsword before the second one is upon her, hitting him not with the blade, but the pommel. He reels back in shock, falling to one knee. Brienne flips her sword in the air, catching the pommel, and points the blade at his throat. He chuckles, his red hair blowing about his face, before lowering his own sword. “I yield.”   


Jaime still has not approached her. When she finally looks up to gage his reaction through the visor of her helm, he gives her a polite nod, his eyes glinting. If she weren’t facing him on the melee field, she might think him kind, but knows he means to disarm her. It is tempting to strike towards him, to swipe that smile off his face, but Ser Goodwin’s advice rings in her ear:  _ Patience, my dear _ . Jaime has been observing her. How she moves, how she fights, but she does not have the same advantage. She knows only his reputation.  


He fought in the campaign against the Kingswood Brotherhood, was knighted at fifteen by the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne. During Robert’s Rebellion, he led Lannister men to King’s Landing in an attempt to thwart Aerys Targaryen. Was nearly named to the Kingsguard by Robert Baratheon for his heroics during the Sack of King’s Landing, but chose to remain a soldier instead.  


He smiles at her again. A smile which has charmed fair maidens, taken down Targaryens, and soothed Baratheon tempers. She may not be very seasoned on the tourney field, but men overestimate their own skill and underestimate hers, whether she is wearing her helm or not. If she is patient, they will make the first move. 

Jaime is no different.

He comes at her with an agile grace, but he is not cocky, at least not at first. All together he is not what she expected him to be. His movements are simple, controlled, and when he does get a hit on her, she almost loses her footing at the shock of it. He is strong, much more powerful than she thought for someone so slim. Brienne is wise enough to know she makes for a large target, while Jaime is easily able to twist and spin and tighten himself out of her way. It frustrates her, that she can barely get a hit on him, and when their blunted swords clash together, neither of them seems willing to break out of the hold.  


She has blocked out the noise of the crowd. No doubt they are cheering for him. All the coin is being wagered in his favor, but she will not yield. “Are you tired?” Jaime asks in a sing-song voice. As their swords meet, the two of them once again become locked together, his blade edging down her own. With a grunt, she pushes him back and from the way his eyes twinkle, she wonders if he already knows her secret. Not who she is, but  _ what _ she is.

Even in the cold mist the rain has turned into, she is sweating, can feel it sliding down her back and creeping into her eyes. Her muscles ache, her breath coming hot and hard inside her helm. She chides herself for slowing down, for conserving her movements, but he must be tired, too, because as he parries towards her and she sidesteps, their swords singing, he steps too far forward, or perhaps expects her to push back, and he starts to fall, his foot slipping in the mud. He manages to straighten himself, not going down on one knee, but Brienne can see his grip loosen on his sword. She knocks it out of his hand with a simple blow. His green eyes flash with fury, but he lets out a laugh. “Well met.”

“Do you yield, Ser?” She asks, but Jaime is crouching into a squat, his hands in fists, like he’s going to continue this fight. She swings her sword towards his face, lowering her wrist so it points at his neck. “Yield!” she demands again. He squirms underneath the point of her sword. She draws close, can feel his heated breath and the eyes of the crowd on her back. “I said yield.”  


His mouth draws up into a cat-like grin. “I will not. Not until you show yourself, mystery knight.”  


Brienne hesitates before she straightens to her full height. She pauses for breath, already imagining the groans and jeers which will come from the crowd. Shutting her eyes against these thoughts, she reaches for her helm, lifting it off her head and letting it fall into the mud. Jaime’s mouth drops open. A sneer crosses his face. “You’re a bloody woman?” he laughs.

There are gasps and shouts from the crowd, but she has the upper hand and will not flinch. “You are at my mercy, Lannister. Now yield.”  


“It was a fine attempt, my  _ lady _ , but the Lannisters do not yield.” Despite him being on his knees and at the end of her sword, each name he calls her drips with derision.  


“My name is Brienne.” She says staunchly.  


“And what are you? Not a daughter, but not a son. You’ll never be a knight. You’re nothing but a monster with a sword.” The thought of her father catches her in the throat. Brienne wishes to deflect his words somehow, but she is not quick enough, cannot parry his argument. Instead she stands gaping like nothing more than a thick plank of wood. Before she can even react, he draws a short dagger from his boot, slashing at her leg. She takes a step back and Jaime neatly bounces to his feet.  


The thin line of open skin at her ankle burns in the wind and anger rises in her chest. “Call me that again and you’ll  _ know _ my sword, Lannister.” They circle around each other, drawn back into their battle of wills. He is waiting to see if she will be the first to break, watching for any weakness to manipulate. Maybe this is hers. Considered too weak to be a warrior, but too ugly to be a lady.  


“Come now,  _ wench _ . Are you frightened?” A loud crack rings out in the yard and Jaime falls to the ground, holding his right shoulder. Brienne’s hands are shaking, surprised at her own violence. She’s never taken such a dirty hit against an opponent.   


The tourney field is silent. Brienne drops the sword, extending a hand to Jaime. He’s curled onto his side, but snarls as she comes near.  


She changes course, leaving him to sulk as she crosses to pick up his sword. It’s all she will take from him, even though as champion, she is allowed his horse and armor as well.  


“You have no place here,” he nearly spits at her when he sees it in her hand.  


It would be easy to let his comment get the better of her, but she draws in a deep breath and says calmly, “You’re injured. Let me help you.”  


“Don’t touch me, cow. My men will assist me.”  


“I defeated your men,” she snaps, through with patience, through with rising above.   


“Then leave me. I will walk off this field without the help of the likes of  _ you _ .”

“You are exactly as they say. You  _ are _ a good fighter, but you are pompous and spoiled and you let your pride get the better of you.” Her hurt and anger pours out of her easily, but she does not regret it. Instead, she turns on her heel to go, leaving Ser Jaime Lannister in the mud, and claiming her right as champion.  


*

That night, Brienne spends some of her winnings to stay at an inn .  When she is able, she will send the rest to her father on Tarth. Other than an occasional foray into a stream, she hasn’t had a bath in weeks, and pays extra coin to have one of the young boys carry water up to her room. She rubs her skin until it burns, red and raw, her head echoing with the words Jaime Lannister spat out. Despite the blow she dealt him today, she knows she will meet him again. Making an enemy out of one of the best knights in Westeros may not have done her any favors.  


When she is clean and dressed, she pulls Jaime’s sword from the cloak she wrapped it in. Even flecked with mud from the field, it gleams in the firelight. Brienne stares at it for a long time. Her eyes must be deceiving her. There are red and black ripples in the steel. Tilting the blade in the light, she admires the colors. She grips the pommel, a lion’s head with two rubies for eyes, the weight easy as she balances it in her hand. She’s never seen another sword like it.  


She will take it to a smith tomorrow, but no doubt it is Valyrian steel. Brienne is aware it is worth its weight in dragons, but she knows she will never sell it. It is too beautiful. 


	2. Riverrun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne watches as the joust commences. Jaime rides out on his white destrier to cries of approval from the crowd. When she met him on the melee field, he was wearing his golden armor, but today he is wrapped in a crimson cloak and smoke black armor embossed with the Lannister lion. He pauses before the viewing stand to dip his lance in salute to Lord Edmure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to janiedean and awakeandwondering for their medieval, knights, and tourney knowledge. Thanks to lewispanda for generally being the most encouraging and working through my outline/scene order with me!

Jaime wears a sling on his arm. He hopes to see her when they reach Riverrun. He will prove to her that her victory is simply a fluke. This woman, if one might call her that, does not belong on the circuit, not among noblemen and knights, not even landed or hedge knights.

On the road, Jaime and his men cross paths with Loras Tyrell and his men. He has never much liked the young man. Loras always acts as if he is above everyone else and seems to hold no regard for his elders, but when he asks after Jaime’s arm, he softens towards him a bit, telling the story of the mysterious ox of a woman he fought. Loras knows of her. “Brienne of Tarth? She beat me at Bitterbridge last year.”

“Tarth?”

“She is Lord Selwyn’s only heir.”

“I know of Lord Selwyn,” Jaime snaps. “Before the Baratheons took the throne, he was friendly with my father, but now has turned his back on the Westerlands, much to his own detriment. I see his daughter is nearly as stubborn. She has no right to call herself a knight.”

“She does not,” Loras corrects him. “She is only Brienne of Tarth. If there is a fighter in blue armor, you will know it is her.” 

If she enters another tournament as a mystery knight, Jaime will do more than that. He will not hesitate to unmask her.

*

He sees her standing by the lists, looking puzzled. “I thought I might see you here. Come to challenge me, wench?”

“_ Wench?” _Upon hearing his voice, her shoulders tighten, knowing she has to brace herself for the insults to come. She does not turn to look at him, continuing to study the list of competitors. “My name is Brienne.”

“I remember. I think wench suits you. Unless you prefer Brienne the Beauty?”

She tears herself away from the parchment, her eyes panicked. “You’ve been speaking with one of Renly’s men? Who was it? Hyle Hunt?”

Jaime expects her obvious disdain for him, but is surprised to hear her so easily question the loyalty of others. “You are quite suspicious of the men you trained with. Do they not vouch for you so you can compete? And I do not know of this Ser Hyle Hunt.”

Brienne cannot hide the disgust on her face. She wears her feelings plainly, except when she has her sword drawn. “He is a hedge knight, Ser. I believe he serves House Tarly now.”

“And what does that make you?”

“I am not a knight, it is true. I carry a letter from Lord Renly which serves as my allowance.”

“Renly can barely raise a sword without needing two hands,” he scoffs, a coarse laugh escaping his throat. When she frowns at him, a wrinkle appears between her brows, and it seems delicate for a face so plain as hers. “Of course he is happy to allow anyone--even a _ woman _ \--fight his battles, because he cannot do it himself.”

Brienne does not falter. She steps into his attack more easily than she had on the melee field, her voice rising in contempt. “So I suppose the Lannisters are on the right side? You dispense justice with an even hand?”

He smirked, amused at the give and take they’ve fallen into. No different than sparring with swords. “For that, you will challenge me in the joust.”

“The joust is not my event.” She replies quickly, anxious to leave, to get away from him. 

“No, but it is mine. I met you on the melee field. It is, as you say, the _ just _ thing, do you not think?”

“Fine,” she agrees, turning to go in a huff, but pivots on her heel back to him.

“Come to wish me luck, my lady?” Jaime’s eyebrow lifts as he shoots her a sly smile.

Every time she hears the teasing tone in her voice, she wants to slap him, if only to shut him up. He thinks himself witty and cunning and perhaps others find a charm in him, but to her, he simply reminds her of the boys who taunted her in the practice yard, the ones who drove her to practice harder, until she was strong enough to beat them. Jaime Lannister is no different than the men who have told her all her life she is not meant to fight.

“No,” she says bluntly. “I cannot ride the joust.”

“And why not?”

“I have no lance.” Her face reddens and her gaze flickers across his face before she looks down at her dusty feet. “I am Tarth’s sole representative and I travel lightly. I do not carry one, my lord.”

“Is that all? I am sure we can find a lance for you.” Her head snaps up at his offer, surprise in her eyes when no insult follows. “Do you require more? A shield, perhaps?” He could not recall if she had carried one when they met on the melee field. 

“No, that will be all.” Brienne presses her lips together and gives him a slight nod.

“Good. I will have Ser Marbrand’s squire deliver the lance to your pavilion.”

Again, her cheeks turn the color of Arbor Gold. “I have no pavilion. Tell him to look for me. I will be among the Stormlanders.”

*

Lance delivered as promised, Brienne watches as the joust commences. Ser Jaime rides out on his white destrier to cries of approval from the crowd. When she met him on the melee field, he was wearing his golden armor, but today he is wrapped in a crimson cloak and smoke black armor embossed with the Lannister lion. He pauses before the viewing stand to dip his lance in salute to Lord Edmure.

When the horn sounds, the pounding of horse hooves echoes the heartbeat in Brienne’s chest. Her gaze focuses on Jaime’s golden lance, which dips as he swings it across his body to meet his opponent’s shield, holding it steady as the horses tear down the lanes towards each other.

The other riders strike nearly simultaneously, creating a cacophony of sounds--splintering wood, clashing steel, horses whinnying, and the roar of the crowd--which sets her teeth on edge, but her eyes remain steadfast on Jaime. The point of his lance kisses his opponent’s shield and slides across. Jaime’s horse continues forward even as Ser Andryw Ashford’s lance splinters against his shield. Ashford’s horse rears at the impact and he is lifted from the saddle, trying to hang on with one hand. Jaime turns his horse around in time to see Ashford fall to the ground. He doesn’t smile, simply raises his lance skyward as the crowd cheers.

Elsewhere on the field, others, including Loras Tyrell, are starting their third course. Jaime guides his horse, barded in gold, over to the Lannister pavilion. He dismounts, slipping off his helm and shaking out his hair, before he takes a sip of wine and turns to watch the remaining competitors.

He makes everything look easy. His movements don’t look practiced, but natural, fluid, as if his lance was merely an extension of his body. And now, the way he struts around his pavilion, drinking wine, he looks as if he doesn’t care at all. Only he cares deeply. He wants to win.

Being beaten by a woman at least seemed to evoke _ some _ emotion in him. He is not as carefree as he may seem. Even so, she is not looking forward to riding against him today. If his strength on the melee field surprised her, she winces to think of his power in his favored event. 

*

Jaime sees her across the field, nearly hidden in the shadow of the viewing stand. He cannot make out her features but she holds herself stiffly, as if she was dreading their course.

He had dismissed her as being like all the others. Someone from a small family who was half a talent with a sword. But she is not like them.

After her force during their sword fight, he was not expecting the gentleness in her. Yesterday, as he teased her, he felt her solidity of spirit. She was not afraid to answer back, but he sensed his words brushed up against a tender bruise. He can see how much she desires being treated as normal, as an equal, and she keeps to herself because she knows she will not find the approbation she is seeking. The only place she finds it is on the tourney field, where she can beat men like him. Even now, she stands apart from the crowd, knowing she does not truly belong.

He never felt he belonged either. He’s never said it aloud because it sounds ridiculous with everything he has been given.

His father was a fine soldier, but an even better military leader and politician. Whenever Jaime visited King’s Landing, he felt people’s eyes on him, the weight of expectations. There is Tywin’s son, the heir to Casterly Rock, a knight at sixteen. Jaime was never comfortable at court with its deceit, politics, and lust for power. Nor did he belong at Lord Hoster Tully’s table as Lysa’s husband or with the white cloaks who protect the King, the Keep, and its Queen.

He belongs on the battlefield, on a tourney pitch, anywhere he might die with a sword in his hand. His father thought him childish, but Jaime is not afraid to die doing something he loved.

*

Brienne’s horse is a pale gray palfrey, not nearly as powerful as Jaime’s destrier, but she is a good horsewoman and heavier than Jaime, so she might be able to unseat him.

If she could see his eyes, she might know more of what he plans to do, but Jaime’s visor covers his face. With his blond hair and sly smile hidden from view, he looks like any other knight, with the exception of the Lannister colors and barding.

To distract her nerves and stoke her anger, she thinks of his sly knowingness and sense of self-importance as they’re waiting for the horn to sound. When it does, Jaime digs his heels into his horse. A head start. She presses her own steed into a gallop and aims her lance. Jaime is almost upon her and she braces herself for impact, but she can see the aim of her lance will strike his shield perfectly. There is the sound of splintering wood. 

A blink. She’s lying on her back on the ground, trying to wrap her mind around what occurred. He is strong, she thinks, recalling how well matched they were at the melee. Perhaps it was not all unbridled confidence which caused Jaime to swagger around the tournament field, to taunt his opponents. Perhaps he had earned the right, after all. 

Appearing in her line of vision, Jaime towers above on his horse, peering down at her. “I did say the joust was my event.”

“And the melee is mine,” she grits out as she tries to sit up, her body protesting.

“We are evenly matched then.” He grins at her, the same smile she hoped to wipe off his face. “Are you hurt?” She suspects his concern is feigned, but she looks up at him in time to see a frown fading.

“I’m all right.” Brienne manages to pick herself up, the crowd clapping as she dusts dirt off her armor. “Well met.”

She walks off the field to find her horse, who has spooked and run out of sight, but of course Jaime won’t take his victory and simply walk away. He follows her on his horse. “You do not seem to be taking your loss too well, my lady.” 

“Do you not have someone else to fight?” Brienne asks with irritation. “Loras Tyrell, perhaps?”

“Did you sell my sword?” She covered it in a shawl and wrapped it into her bedroll for travel. “It’s Valyrian steel, you know. If you sold it for less than two thousand dragons, you’re a fool.”

She stops and looks up at him, wearing her annoyance plain across her brow. “Even I am not so thick to sell a Valyrian steel sword. I recognize a good weapon when I see one.”

“You are not wearing it.”

She had not wanted to attract attention by carrying such a valuable sword on her hip. Much less one which was Lannister forged, with its lion head hilt. “Do you want it back?” It would be his right, after her loss.

“No. I plan to win it back on the melee field.”

“Do you? I shall like to see it.” Brienne cannot resist teasing him a little. It’s the least he deserves after all his clever comments to her. His mouth pulls up into a twisted smile, perhaps pleased she’s following along with their game. “I suppose if we travel the same circuit, we are likely to see each other again.” 

“More’s the pity. Maybe you’ll learn not to scowl every time you see me. If I can manage it with you, it’s the least you can do.” Before she can respond likewise, Jaime directs his horse back towards the tiltyard, leaving her to think about his promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Jaime better at the joust or the melee? Let me know what you think in the comments below. Thanks for reading!
> 
> tumblr @aliveanddrunkonsunlight


	3. Silverhill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Excitement is already starting to bubble in her stomach when Brienne wakes in the morning, her hand already beginning to ache for when she will hold a sword in it. She finds the tent nearly empty, except for Jaime Lannister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: Jaime's bannermen - There have been several Tybolts in the Lannister family tree. I do not believe there is one alive currently, but I figured Jaime probably has a cousin who is named after their ancestor.
> 
> Thanks to lewispanda for her amazing beta skills and helping me get untangle my ideas for this story.

**Silverhill**

The night before a tournament, Jaime often takes a walk to clear his head. As weaves his way through the various encampments, plain tents made from sailcloth and fine pavilions of silk or linen, there is the familiar mumble of tales exchanged by the fire and a few bouts of singing. They may be enemies tomorrow, but for tonight, they are all the same. He wanders away from the tents, letting the sound of running water lead him to a small brook. Jaime splashes a bit of cool water on his face and turns towards camp, admiring the glow rising into the sky from the campfires and torchlight. Striding back along the edge of the encampment, he hears someone say Tarth. 

Among the jumped up hedge knights and landed knights competing at Silverhill, he had not noticed Brienne’s name among them, but secretly hoped to see her here. So when her home is mentioned, he pauses to listen behind a bush. As the light from the fire plays across their faces, Jaime can make out three or four men and a fifth figure, one he recognizes as Brienne herself, still wearing her blue armor.

“I hear they call you the Maid of Tarth,” one of the men says.

Half of Brienne’s face is hidden in darkness, but her mouth pulls into a thin line before answering. “I suppose some do. You may call me Brienne.” There’s a calmness in her tone, but a fierceness, too. He heard it the first time they faced each other, when she berated him for taunting her. 

“Does that mean you’re still a maiden then?” One of the other men has the nerve to ask. 

“I-” Now there is obvious discomfort in her face. You would have to be a fool to miss it, but then all of these men with her were. Halfwits and cowards. 

“And your father sent you out here with the likes of us?” The first voice asks.

“Won’t stay a maid for long then,” the second voice replies before letting out a menacing cackle. 

“Guess he wasn’t worried what with the way she looks,” another voice says. 

“Oh, it ain’t so bad. Long as you take her from behind!”

“That’s enough!” Jaime steps out of the bushes. Brienne gapes at him. The men scramble to their feet. A chorus of “Ser Jaime” ring out from the men’s lips. “Is that any way to talk to a highborn lady? If you cannot remember your manners, _sers_,” he says derisively, “then I shall have to enact some justice on the tourney field tomorrow. Is that understood?” The men nod mutely, some afraid to look away from him, others focus their gaze on the fire.  


Brienne’s expression is hard to read, but her mouth remains in a firm line, although her face softens slightly when she meets his gaze. “On second thought, the Heir of Tarth may see to it herself.” She straightens at this comment, looking around at the men. “You’ve picked a bad pair to make enemies of.” He steps towards her, whispering in her ear. “Lady Brienne, gather your things. Come with me.” 

Even in the dim light, he can see her blue eyes cloud with confusion. But she does as he says. She returns from the tent with her swordbelt slung around her hips, her shield, a bedroll tucked under her arm. She’s wearing her mail and armor. “Is that all?” he asks, surprised. 

"My horse,” she inclines her head towards the front of the encampment, where the horses are kept. “But I can retrieve her in the morning.” 

Jaime nods, setting off on the trail between the tents. The raucous laughter and drunken singing do not sound as comforting now.  


He can hear the movements of Brienne behind him, juggling her sword and shield, but he does not offer help. They will still be opponents in the morning and it will do him no good to find himself softening towards her because of what these men said to her tonight. It’s enough that he’s providing her a place to sleep away from them. A simple courtesy, nothing more.  


“I don’t need you defending me, my lord.” Brienne speaks up.  


“Fine,” he spits out, his tone haughty. “Then you’re welcome to go back and join them, but when they sneak into your tent tonight and leave you bruised and bloody, don’t come to me.”  


The absence of her shield and mail clanking together signals him to stop. When he turns, Brienne is a few feet behind him. “They may taunt me, but they wouldn’t…” She trails off, suddenly uncertain. 

There is fear on her face, but his exasperation with her display of innocence gets the better of him. “Gods, you really are as stupid as you look. Now come on, hurry up.” 

Brienne looks chastened as he leads her into his tent, which boasts the Lannister sigil sewn into its entrance, and the walls are made of rich crimson silks. Inside, there are full wardrobes made of dark wood with gold accents. “Place your bedroll wherever you like,” Jaime tells her.

“My bedroll?” Brienne’s eyes widen and she shakes her head. “No, I could not impose. I can sleep outside. I am comfortable there.”

“Outside? Do you think I saved you from those…” Jaime searches for a word, “ _ wolves _ only to have you sleep outside?”  


“I am grateful, my lord, but I did not need saving.”

“Perhaps not. But you do not need to take a beating both on the melee field and off. Those men are cowards.” She does not know what to say. She is not used to people being kind, most certainly not men like Jaime Lannister. Her gaze falls to where his full suit of armor sits on a stand. It’s polished to a golden sheen and clearly custom made to his proportions, not simply pulled out of the armory to suit him. She nearly reaches out to touch the exquisite metalwork, but dares not.  


“This is…” Brienne searches for the right word.  


“Elaborate?” Jaime suggests. “It is my brother’s doing. I am happy sleeping under the stars.”  


She was speaking of his armor, but realizes he means the tent and its trappings. Brienne imagines he is someone who appreciates lavish comfort, but perhaps her perception is due to his family name more than anything else. Outside of rumors and gossip, she does not know much about the Lannisters. Her father knew Lord Tywin, but during the war, Tarth supported Robert Baratheon, as did many of the Stormland houses. But now the Lannister and Baratheon houses have combined through the marriage of the King and Jaime’s sister, she is unsure where her loyalties should lie.  


“Is that how camp usually is for you?”

“How do you mean?”

“The way those men were speaking.” She looks at him curiously. This is the same man who had mocked her on the field and now he’s defended her honor and shown concern for her feelings all in one evening.

“Sometimes.” He waits for her to expand her answer, so she continues, “It’s not often so crude. More likely it’s them teasing me about my skill.”

He frowns. “Does it not bother you?”  


“It would be easy to let it get to me. But I prefer to prove them wrong on the tourney pitch.”  


Jaime’s face relaxes and he lets out a laugh. “And you certainly have.”

His ease acknowledging her ability surprises her. “You do not have to be polite,” she says, suspicion edging into her voice. Brienne suspects this is all some sort of jape she isn’t privy to yet. “And you did not have to invite me to stay here.”  


“Of course you can stay,” he says brusquely. “There’s plenty of room. Despite what you may have heard, I do not bite.” He cocks his head to the side and squints at her. “You’re quite stubborn, you know.”

“You called me a cow.”  


A hint of a smile pulls at his lips. “I did,” he admits. “But you took a cheap shot with your sword.”  


“I do apologize for that. My anger got the better of me in the moment.”  


“Understood.” Jaime struggles to keep another smile under wraps. Brienne’s cheeks burn. Despite his words, she’s certain his kindness is all part of some grander scheme. “Have you eaten yet? Would you like to meet the rest of the men?”  


She starts to follow but uncertainty floods her when she hears of his bannermen. “They won’t be pleased to see me.”  


“You are a strange creature,” Jaime replies, shaking his head and beckoning her towards the tent’s exit.  


On the backside of the tent sit a ring of men around a blazing fire. Jaime introduces her to Steffon Swyft, his cousins Tybolt and Daven Lannister, the latter of whom she recognizes from the melee. “And lastly, this is Addam Marbrand.” She remembers him from the melee as well, only now he takes her hand in his, giving it a firm shake, and says, “Well met, Lady Brienne.” She relaxes slightly, settling onto one of the benches. There’s a cask of wine and a small boar on a spit turning over the fire. She’s beginning to understand the appeal of the Lannister camp.  


*

Excitement is already starting to bubble in her stomach when Brienne wakes in the morning, her hand already beginning to ache for when she will hold a sword in it. She finds the tent nearly empty, except for Jaime Lannister.  


“Do you always sleep in your armor?” Jaime sits in a high-backed chair, no doubt with some lion carved into its back, his legs kicked out in front of him, sipping from a worn golden chalice.  


_ Do you ever stop talking _ , she almost snaps at him, but notices the concern in his eyes. Meeting his bannermen and sleeping in his tent has done little to allay her fears about him, but he acts genuine. Brienne nods. “It’s what I’ve been told to do.”  


“There is no need for it here. You are safe.”  


She wants to balk at the thought, because she certainly does not feel safe underneath his cat-like gaze, but she had slept well and deeply, perhaps for the first time in months, and she cannot find fault in that.  


Brienne shifts her gaze away, but can feel him watching her. “Perhaps you will tell me why you’re here.” She isn’t sure what he means. He’s the one who found her, who brought her here. “Even you have to admit it is uncommon for a lady to be here. To fight,” he continues, as if reading her thoughts.  


“I suppose.” She settles onto one of the benches in the tent and places her sword across her lap. Last night, she sharpened it with a whetstone, but now, in order to look away from Jaime’s penetrating gaze, she continues to polish it with an oil cloth. “All I ever wanted to do since I was small was have a sword in my hand.” This may be the only thing she has in common with the man sitting across from her. “My father tried his best to educate me. Tarth has fallen on hard times during the wars and since I was so capable, I thought maybe I could do something to help my island. For my father.” Her chest tightens as she speaks of it. She does not expect him to understand. He’s been given everything he’s ever wanted. He does not know what it is like to struggle, to feel an outsider.   


“Where did you train?”  


“Tarth, mostly. My father’s friend taught me. When it became clear it was something I was not willing to give up, I was sent to Storm’s End.”  


“You trained with Renly?” 

“Yes.” She tries not to think of the other men, their japes and crude words. What happened makes her heart quicken in anger and her face redden in embarrassment. She feels the heat beginning to spread across her cheeks and hopes Jaime does not see it.  


“Why not stay there then? I’m sure Renly would consider you for his Rainbow Guard.”  


“You know that is not true.” Her tone is bitter. “I could ask you the same. Your family is well-known and wealthy. Why aren’t you serving as a knight in the Kingsguard or fighting Robert’s battles?”  


“Robert’s only battles are with my sister.” It’s a strange comment to make and Brienne looks up at him, trying to glean something from his face, but he remains stoic.  


He sighs. “It’s not worth talking about. I would rather be here than sworn to some oath or taking demands from my father at Casterly Rock.” He places the chalice on the chest next to him and stands. “I must prepare for today.”  


Understanding that their conversation is over, Brienne rises and returns her sword to its sheath, still unsure what to make of the mercurial man she leaves alone in the tent.  


Jaime is perfectly aware of what others think of him. They consider him nothing more than a man whose family legacy and wealth are more important than loyalty and honor. Hearing Brienne’s story, her reverence and pride in her home, stirred something in him. She was  _ good _ . His father had never expected the same of him, only to do what was right for their family. Everything for the Lannister name. It was part of the reason he stayed at the Rock while his father and siblings marched off to King’s Landing. He did not care about court drama or politics. He had run away from all that.  


*

The joust is held before the melee, so Brienne stands near the viewing stand, listening to the cheer that rises when Ser Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock is announced. Her stomach twists at the sight of him atop his white destrier riding onto the field, clad in his armor, golden hair blowing in the wind as he waves to the crowd.  


The man who looks at ease basking in this fervor from the crowd--who are now shouting his name in anticipation of his first course--is at odds with the man she met last night. He was chivalrous and kind, despite her suspicions of him. He seemed genuinely interested in her life, although she knew it was a small one when compared to his own. As much as she wanted to believe what he said, she still doubted his actions, because what benefit would he gain from helping someone like her?  


Perhaps he planned to use her against the Baratheons somehow, but she doubts her own notion. That morning, Jaime had easily dismissed any talk of court. He did not seem to have an instinct for the political machinations his father and brother were said to possess.  


His talents lay on the tourney pitch. Seeing how both the smallfolk and highborn rallied around him, however, makes her suspect if Jaime decided to become a leader--the Lord of Casterly Rock or the Warden of the West--he would be embraced by many.  


By the time she leaves after the third round, he’s broken two lances and unseated his last opponent. The golden boy of the Seven Kingdoms.  


*

Sunlight streams through the tent flaps, guiding Jaime’s gaze to her yellow hair and her long, nimble fingers tightening the stays of her armor. They have a long ride from Silverhill to Felwood, where Renly is hosting a tournament to celebrate his engagement to Margaery.  


Jaime is slow to unfurl from his bedsheets. “Morning,” he mutters as he rises. “Do we part so soon?” He nods to the sword and shield already in her hand. “The ride is at least a fortnight. What’s the hurry?”  


He stretches his arms above his head, aware he is exposing the skin of his stomach. When Brienne notices, her cheeks pinken, and she averts her gaze as she speaks, “No, your men have not departed.” She is shy, a trait he finds both endearing and infuriating. “I wanted to thank you for your hospitality-”  


“Thank me!” he interrupts, a small laugh escaping his lips. “Whatever for?”  


Brienne planned to be away before he woke. Now he stands before her in a thin tunic and breeches, looking rumpled one moment and the next, sunlight catching his hair, his glow nearly blinding. She stutters over her words. “I’ll be on my way, ser.”

“Have you been called away? Are you not riding on to Felwood?” He frowns.  


“No, ser. I do intend to compete at Felwood.” A look of hurt passes across his face fleetingly. He has been kind to her, but she could not imagine why he would want her to stay, to ride with them.  


“Call me Jaime,” he instructs her, almost dismissively. “So if you plan to attend Felwood, then you will ride out with us. You’re a part of our camp. That’s how we do things.”  


“I cannot do that, ser.” She can see he’s waiting for her to say his name, so she takes a breath and corrects herself. “Ser Jaime.”  


“Why not?”  


“You have been...most generous, but I cannot repay you.”  


He stares at her for a long moment. “You do not need to, Lady Brienne,” he says quietly. “If I have not already made it clear, I will do so now. I wish you to be a member of our camp. To ride, eat, sleep, and practice with us. If you cannot do so because of your family’s loyalties, then I understand. But otherwise, you are welcome here.”  


After telling him of Tarth’s troubles, she worries Jaime is taking pity on her, but his offer seems sincere. She thinks of how she felt sitting around the fire with the rest of his men. No one said an unkind word. She did not feel belittled or betrayed, she felt she belonged. “I--I thank you. If that is what you wish, then I will stay.”  


His fingers flutter at his side, almost reaching for her, but not wanting to scare her. “But is it what  _ you _ wish? The choice is yours.”

She hesitates, knowing Jaime is likely to change his mind, but hears her father’s words.  _ My dear, you might make life easier for yourself if you trusted those who are trying to help you. _ “Yes.”  


Jaime’s mouth spreads into a broad grin. It is not one of his teasing smiles, but a full, real one. “Good. Then we will speak on the way to Felwood.”  


“About what, Ser?”

“Whether you are willing to work together on the tourney field.”  


A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Do you ask because you fear losing to me again?”

“See, wench?” he laughs, winking at her. “This is why you have to stay with us. We do have fun.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> tumblr: @aliveanddrunkonsunlight


	4. The Road - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You do not have to call me my lady. Brienne suits me.”
> 
> “Not wench?” She opens her mouth to protest, but he’s smiling. His words are jovial, not full of contempt as they were when she faced him on the melee field or in the tilt yard. Something in her chest loosens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, I apologize - stay tuned for next week! 
> 
> Thank you to lewispanda for the beta.

Once they travel past the rocky roads of Silverhill and out into the lush, open fields as they head south, Jaime’s mood shifts. He jokes with his men about nearly everything, remarking they should gallop all the way to Goldengrove if it wouldn’t tire out the horses, and challenges them to races. Addam accepts his offer and Brienne barely blinks before they take off, their horses kicking up dust, Jaime’s laugh carrying in the still air. They grow to pinpricks of color in the distance before turning around and riding back, Jaime smiling at whatever Ser Marbrand said, his golden hair glinting in the sun. 

When they return to the group, Jaime lets Addam lead them, and he falls in beside Brienne, slowing his horse’s pace to let her rest. He smells of sweat and leather. Their morning in the hills of the Westerlands started off cool and crisp, but as they have descended into the Reach, it has warmed considerably. Brienne wants to roll up the sleeves on her tunic but is afraid of getting a burn. 

“How is your ride so far, my lady?” 

“You do not have to call me my lady. Brienne suits me.”

“Not wench?” She opens her mouth to protest, but he’s _smiling_. His words are jovial, not full of contempt as they were when she faced him on the melee field or in the tilt yard. Something in her chest loosens. 

When she began her lessons with Ser Goodwin at age 10, this is what she imagined life as a knight to be. Most of her childhood was spent alone and longing for true friends. When she left home, she hoped she might find a group in which she fit, where she truly belonged. Friends which would share her beliefs, in which she could hone her skills without fear of repute. She is not so naive as to believe they are knights, except Jaime and Addam by title. They have not sworn fealty to anyone, they are not on a quest, they do not rescue fair maidens or innocent children. The feeling of belonging is what she clings to, but she wrestles with the idea of finding it here among men, who for most of her life, she was told were the enemy. 

“When we stop for lunch, we often do a bit of sparring. It is good for the muscles after so long on a horse,” Jaime informs her. “Will you join us? Or do you fear us finding out your secrets?” 

“You have seen me fight.” She replies, although perhaps he is right that it would be wise to keep some of her techniques to herself. 

He nods. “You are a strong swordswoman.” 

Brienne studies him for a long moment, relishing the word. _Swordswoman_. Few people ever compliment her skill. Her father, Ser Goodwin, and now Jaime. The men she has beaten usually toss insults at her and women turn away from her. “I would say you are talented with a sword yourself, but you do not need me to tell you that.”

“There is always room for improvement.” He offers easily, his eyebrow ticking upwards. 

“Are you offering to teach me? Maybe I do not wish for your help.” She tries to match his usual teasing tone, but cuts her eyes to him, wanting to insure he has not misunderstood. 

Brienne is rewarded by a twinkle in Jaime’s eyes as he tells her, drolly, “You wound me, my lady.” 

She expects him to return to the front of the group and take his place next to Addam, but he stays beside her. The wind rustles through the trees, birdsong rings out, and after the noise and stench of tourney camps, Brienne admires the quiet of nature. “I saw you at a tourney once, when I was younger.” 

“Did you? Where?” 

Most people would be able to name the hall or the queen of love and beauty, but Brienne only cared to see the men fight. “It was on the mainland. Perhaps at Storm’s End?” She cannot imagine what the occasion would have been. “I was 12 or 14. I cannot remember why my father would have traveled…” Brienne waves it away. “It does not matter. You won the day. As talented as Ser Arthur Dayne, my father said, and he is hard to please.” 

“Your father thinks too highly of me.” Jaime shakes his head, brushing off the compliment. “I knew Ser Arthur and he is one of the finest swordsmen to ever live. I am not nearly as skilled as he was. And now I am no longer as quick or able as I used to be.” 

“I hardly think you are less agile. You are much quicker than me. So perhaps you do have something to teach me after all.” She catches the small smile that passes his lips. 

When they stop for lunch, the men spread themselves out. Jaime and Addam sit up against a tree, while Daven and Steffon spread their cloaks on the grass and lie on their backs, letting the sun warm their faces. Tybolt wanders off, munching on an apple. After Brienne finishes her salted beef, she tries her oat cake, but it crumbles like sawdust in her mouth. She grimaces and stands, deciding to feed it to her horse. 

Watching the men from a distance, Daven approaches Addam and offers him a tourney sword, before the two of them move to an open spot some distance away. She takes down her bedroll from the saddle and unrolls it in order to take out the cloak which holds Jaime’s sword. Approaching him, she notices how the leaves of the large oak he is sitting under filter out the sun, allowing only a few flecks of light to fall across his face. His head is tilted back against the large trunk, eyes closed, and he looks so peaceful she does not want to disturb him. As soon as she thinks it, he opens his eyes, blinking at her. A small smile pulls at the edge of his lips. “My lady?” 

Brienne slides the sword out from the fabric and extends it to Jaime. His smile disappears and his eyes flick up to hers, holding her gaze steady, until she dips her chin. “This is yours.” She does not like feeling as if she owes someone a debt. Jaime has offered her a place in his company, a place to stay, and he has already refused payment. The least she can do is give him his sword back. 

“No,” he shakes his head. “It’s yours. You won it fairly.”

Her arm drops to her side. Brienne glances up at him, and he is searching her face so earnestly, he makes it hard to think. Slowly, she recognizes the look in his eyes. It isn't mocking or indifference, but more like sympathy. She is used to men insulting her, laughing at her, and dealing with their cruelty. She is equipped for that. She is not prepared for this. Her voice wavers, before sinking into a whisper so the other men will not hear. “Do not be kind because you pity me, ser.” 

“Why would you say that?” The surprise in his tone makes her eyes rise to his again. “I do not pity you.” 

“Why would you ask me to stay with your men?” She frowns. “I am shunned by everyone else. That’s why you asked me to stay, is it not? Because you felt sorry for me.” The anger is not meant for him. It is for the others, but there is nothing she can do about it now.

“That’s not why, Lady Brienne.” 

It is difficult not to bristle at his insistence at calling her my lady. “Then why?”

His does not answer her question, instead nodding at the sword she holds. “Use it and see for yourself.” Jaime stands and unsheathes his own sword. Only when she sees his now, up close, does she realize how closely it resembles the one she has. “You should keep it. At least until I win it back.” 

It’s the same thing he said after he defeated her in the joust. Things are different now, she reminds herself. “But the melee is not your event.” 

He raises his eyebrows. “Maybe I will challenge you at Felwood.” 

There is lightness in his tone and she sighs, exasperated, but allows herself a small smile. “You will _not_.” 

He laughs and his eyes grow warm again. “Come on. Put that down and come spar with me.” 

Brienne hesitates, but Jaime is walking backwards away from her, two tourney swords in his right hand. “I am certain you would much rather practice with Daven or Steffon.” 

“No, wench,” he winks at her. “It’s you I want.” 


	5. Felwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small part of her still believes in the same songs and stories he used to listen to with rapt attention as a young boy. The stories about noble knights and kindly princes who fall in love with sweet maidens. He hates to tell her that most of the knights he’s known committed evil deeds. Princes were only kindly to maidens because they thought they could get them into their beds. And yet the most honorable person he knows is standing in front of him, so perhaps there is some truth to the songs yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me issues for a really long time. At one point, there were three drafts of it, and I could not figure out how to move the story forward. Thanks to lewispanda, who offered to help me sort through the series of events. Without her, this chapter--and therefore this story--would not exist.

Her tall stature has always made her feel she stands out, but over the years, she’s learned that although people take note of her at first, she often can stand in the back of the room and not be noticed. It allows her to observe everyone else. Through the crowd, she makes out Jaime, surrounded by a gaggle of women young and old. Stormlanders are known to be a stoic people, but since they arrived at Felwood, house loyalties have no longer seemed to matter, as women fawned over his looks and men stood in awe of his skill in the joust. She rolls her eyes, turning her gaze to Renly, but it is Margaery who catches her attention. She is radiant. As they were entering the hall, she greeted Brienne warmly, as if they were old friends. “You were magnificent in the melee.” Brienne was nearly speechless, but stammered out, “Thank you, my lady.” 

Margaery moves deftly about the room, conversing with everyone, politely dancing with those who ask. It is subtle at first, but Brienne picks up on it immediately. Margaery keeps glancing at Jaime. She’s hardly surprised. However, he barely seems to notice, even when Margaery reaches him and places her hand on his arm as she speaks. Brienne has spotted Addam and Daven, even Steffon in various dark corners with ladies of the court, but Jaime does not seem similarly inclined. Surely there is someone here who holds his interest. 

Renly approaches her, interrupting her thoughts. “Lady Brienne,” he bows his head to kiss her hand. “You performed admirably today. Would you care to dance?” 

Her cheeks burn and she ducks her head. While she may have skill on the tourney field, she most certainly does not on the dance floor. “I would not wish to embarrass you, my lord.” 

“You will do no such thing. Come, dance with me.” He holds out his hand, waiting with an earnest smile on his face. She hesitates, but places her hand on top of his gingerly, allowing herself to be led into the hall. 

*

Jaime often finds himself the center of attention in a circle of women, spinning tales of his victories, and eliciting sympathy for his losses. As a young man, he reveled in it, but now he finds it tiring. He seeks a respite, a drink with his men, but a glance across the large hall finds Addam speaking to Joyce Penrose, Steffon with Malora Kellington, and no sign of Daven or Tybolt.

The dancers twirl across the floor and his eyes land on Renly in the crowd, paired with a woman who is taller than him. Yellow hair and freckles. Jaime blinks. Dancing with _Brienne_. 

He opens his mouth to laugh but no sound comes out. Brienne lopes about their tent, awkward and painfully shy whenever one of the other men speaks to her, but her comfort with a sword and a morningstar shows an unexpected grace and nimbleness. 

He has never seen her like this, though. Light on her feet, her face softened by candlelight, a pink glow across her cheeks. Her blue eyes are bright and there’s a smile pulling at her mouth, showing off her big teeth. 

The room is boiling. There is sweat on his upper lip. He can scarcely tear his eyes away from Brienne, but he senses a movement in the crowd, and glances to his right in time to see Lady Leyana Hightower, one of Margaery’s cousins, heading his direction. Quickly looking around for an escape route, he plows through the crowd, hoping to find the balcony empty. 

*

Brienne barely has time to comprehend she is dancing--not just with any man, but with Renly, the one person she has held fond feelings for since she was a young girl--before he is murmuring in her ear, in an effort to be heard over the music. “I hear you bested Jaime Lannister at a tournament. So how did you come to be in his service?”

She doesn’t wish to speak of Jaime just now. Not when Renly’s arms are around her. “How do you mean, my lord?” 

“You traveled with him here, did you not? I am simply wondering what he offered to you that the Baratheons could not?” Her cheeks are burning, no longer from the warmth of the room, but from embarrassment. He is questioning her loyalty. 

Brienne tries to keep her voice measured, even though she feels she’s being reprimanded. “I am not sworn to him, my lord. I simply travel with his men, but I still ride--I will always ride--for Tarth.” She can hear the stories and laughter of Daven, Tybolt, Steffon, Addam, and Jaime. Their courtesy and warmth. She thinks of the fields they stopped in for lunch, the chill in the air as evening fell, but which did not stop them from sleeping underneath the stars. There have been more pleasant memories in the fortnight traveling to Felwood than she ever had during camp at Highgarden.

Renly narrows his eyes. “And that is all? There is nothing Ser Jaime has offered you…?” 

Brienne has barely drunk any wine, but the room spins, fury rising up her throat. The person she idolizes stands before her, implying Jaime Lannister could only have a corrupt motive for wanting someone like her in his company. “Are the Lannisters still our enemies?”

There is surprise on Renly’s face, but he masks it with a smile. “My brother is married to Ser Jaime’s sister, it’s true, but I simply wish you to be careful. The Lannisters are known far and wide, but not oft for good.” 

“I am aware of their reputation.” But you do not know Ser Jaime, she thinks. He broke into the camp to reprimand the men who threatened me. “I am grateful for your loyalty and I would not turn my back on my home, but I have been asked to ride with Ser Jaime and his men. I do not betray my promises so easily.”

Renly gives her a small nod and she realizes the dance has ended, the music has stopped. “I understand, Lady Brienne. And I am pleased to know you still represent your homeland. I wish you continued success in future tournaments.”

She should thank him, but she is so shaken by the experience, she can only watch him go. He did not seem angry with her, but Brienne was hurt by his suspicion towards Jaime. Renly is one of the few who have always shown her kindness, but perhaps it was only the mask of chivalry. Maybe he was not as honest or true as she had always believed. 

When the music starts up again, Brienne tries to focus her attention on the dancers, but Renly’s questions have made her feel as she often does: alone. She does not belong here, not among the beautiful ladies or handsome knights. But Renly is right about one thing, she does not really belong with the Lannister men, either. Slipping away from the celebratory crowd in the hall, she has a sudden, desperate ache for her bedroll. 

*

By the end of the evening, Jaime has drunk quite a bit of wine and is stumbling back to his tent. Even in the dark, he can recognize Brienne’s gait ahead of him. “Wench,” he hisses, as he trips towards her. He can hear her sigh, exasperated. 

“What do you want?” 

“You danced with him quite a bit. I saw you.” 

“Who?” 

“Renly.” 

“Once. I danced with him once. Because he asked. It was the polite thing.” 

“_Only_ because it was polite? Come now. You’ve got eyes for him, haven’t you?”

Brienne’s gut tightens. This is not the light-hearted teasing they had fallen into on the way here. His words now are too similar to his taunts on the melee field. He wanted to get a rise out of her then, make her angry. “Renly is kind to me. That is all.”

Jaime is quiet for a long moment and she thinks perhaps she’s got it all wrong. That he was only mocking her in jest, but then he says, “It’s all folly, you know. Lady Margaery is playing along quite splendidly. I almost believed her.” 

“What are you on about now?” She frowns back at him. They’ve reached the tent and she nearly lets the heavy crimson cloth hit him on the way in.

“Your kind lord Renly. You might have a chance with him yet. You’re quite his type. He does like men.” 

The words hang in the air. Jaime knows it’s the drink which made him say it. The drink and perhaps the way his breath left him when he saw her dancing with Renly. 

Brienne is staring in shock, her mouth half open, but then she rounds on him, as he expects her to, her chin trembling with outrage. “I am not so thick as to think someone like Renly would want me. You think I haven’t been told all my life that I was ugly? Oafish? Odd? I preferred to wear breeches to dresses. You think I haven’t been picked on by women because I looked like a man? Or I haven’t been picked on by men for wanting to be a knight when I was merely a _girl_?” 

He steps forward, anxious to fix what he’s done. “Brienne, I’m sorry.” His words are often sharp when he does not mean to be, a skill picked up from the years at the Lannister table, listening to Tyrion and Cersei make scalding remarks to each other, until they were interrupted by their father, who filled their heads with birthright and privilege. _You represent this family and you will act as such. You are better than anyone you meet._

She might be more forgiving towards Jaime if her loyalty had not been questioned earlier in the evening. “An apology is not enough for being thoughtlessly cruel. I have heard it all my life, but I did not expect it from you. I should go.” 

“No, you can’t--It’s the middle of the night. Where will you go?” He watches helplessly as she stuffs her few belongings into her bedroll. 

“There’s an inn not far from here. Or I’m certain Lady Margaery would find a place for me in the hall, if I asked. Why do you care?” Brienne snaps. 

“Because,” he stammers, searching for a reason. During his momentary hesitation, she rises to her feet, slinging her bedroll over her shoulder. Her sword belt swings wildly from her hand as she pushes past him out of the tent. 

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, he sighs, before he turns on his heel, following after her. Leave the wench, he thinks, but he finds he cannot. He remembers the night he’d stormed into her camp at Silverhill. The night he told himself not to get too attached because she was still his competition, and then he’d gone and invited her to stay.

She may have longer legs than him, but he was faster. “My lady,” he says as he catches up to her. “I apologize. You are right. That was spiteful of me to say. And untrue. But you cannot leave.” 

Brienne pauses and glares at him. “I can do what I please, Ser Jaime.” 

“Yes, of course, but-” She sets off again, him chasing after her. None of his men questioned his decision to include her and they easily could have. Both Addam and Daven remarked to him how Brienne’s fighting style made them sharpen their own skills. The only concession they’d made was to hang up a bedsheet in a corner of the tent to allow her some privacy in the mornings. “Will you stop and listen for a moment?” Whirling around to look at him, he almost slams into her. He reaches out to steady himself, his fingers pressing into her wrist. Jaime doesn’t know why she listened, why she stopped, and he still has no idea what to say to not make her storm off into the night. “I will let you best me in the joust, but please, just..._stay_.” 

They are standing so close that in the half light of the moon, he can see the familiar way the lines at the juncture of her nose and brow wrinkle when she’s upset. Can hear her sigh of irritation. “Is everything a jape to you? Am I a jape to you?” Brienne cinches the sword belt around her middle. “You don’t want me here. Renly doesn’t want me here.”

There is hurt in her voice--hurt that Renly does not want her--and Jaime is reminded of how young she is, how innocent. A small part of her still believes in the same songs and stories he used to listen to with rapt attention as a young boy. The stories about noble knights and kindly princes who fall in love with sweet maidens. He hates to tell her that most of the knights he’s known also committed evil deeds. Princes were only kindly to maidens because they thought they could get them into their beds. And yet the most honorable person he knows is standing in front of him, so perhaps there is some truth to the songs yet. “Renly? What did he say?”

She ignores his question, making Jaime even more suspicious that the young man has wounded her in some way. And him on top of it. “No, you are not a jape, my lady. I am sorry my words offended. I know it is your choice to be here with us and I take that very seriously indeed.” He forgets his words have the ability to prick old scabs and open a wound. It feels a small victory when Brienne lets out a deep sigh and finally looks at him. “If you want to go, I understand, but only, don’t run off into the night. If you feel the same in the morning, then you are free to go. I will not hold you back.” 

When he asked her to ride with them, he did not know how much he was asking of her. By the day, it’s become clear to him she trusts no one, yet he expected her to place her faith in him, a stranger. The very same stranger who refused to yield, who mocked her skill and her appearance on the melee field and in the tiltyard. Maybe she’s right. Maybe she should leave, but despite her doubts, despite the anger she likely feels towards him, she stands in a field in the middle of the night, looking at him with something akin to hope.

_She is too good_, he thinks. Pure. Kind-hearted. She is here for a reason. To help her father, her homeland. He is here because he’s running from obligation. 

“You should stay because you are talented with a sword. A strong fighter.” Brienne waits. She knows all of this. Of course she does. “I’ve been doing this for a long time. Traveling the circuit. I was tired of it. I’m growing too old for it. I thought this might be the last time, before I finally went back to Casterly Rock and fulfilled my father’s wishes. But then you showed up,” he shrugs, his smile sheepish. “And it’s reminded me why I love it. What I liked about all of it in the first place.” 

“So I _entertain_ you?” Her voice edges into hurt and he cannot believe he has made this worse somehow, without even realizing it. She misunderstands him so easily. It’s like she is looking for any excuse to dart out of his grasp, to be away from him, and a tiny part of him again considers whether he should let her.

He pushes past his frustration, trying again, this time for calm assurances. “No, Lady Brienne, that’s not what I’m saying.” Her eyes are wide, but she has not spooked yet. “I respect you. We all do. And things would not be the same if you left.” He lets the weight of his words fill the air around them, hopes she can hear in his voice that he _means_ it. He wants her to know his high opinion of her, perhaps even more than she longs to hear it.

She’s quiet for a moment and he can nearly see her wavering. “I enjoy your company.” Her gaze holds his for a little too long and then her words are rushing forth, as if she has admitted something she was not quite ready to say. “And the company of your men.” 

“I am glad of it, Lady Brienne.” He reaches to take her bedroll from her and they make their way back towards the tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sneak peek for next week: At sunrise, Addam builds a small fire to ward away the morning chill. Brienne is the last to join them. Jaime half expects her to tell him she’s taking her leave, but she only crouches down next to Steffon, warming her hands. 
> 
> “What time shall we depart, Jaime?” Tybolt asks.
> 
> He shrugs, kicking the dirt. “Whenever we are ready. No point in staying much longer.” 
> 
> “Aye, or do you simply want to be away before Margaery changes her mind?” Addam nods knowingly. 
> 
> Brienne looks at him then, her mouth twisted in surprise, wide-eyed and vulnerable.


	6. The Road - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you have something dry to wear?” He nods. “Go change. Then come rest your feet by the fire so you can get warm.” 
> 
> “Turns out you are just as commanding outside of the tourney field,” he replies, eyeing her with a smirk. “You should change as well, my lady.” Jaime tugs on the end of her sleeve before he slips past her towards the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe this is halfway done! I'm very excited about the next few chapters, so I hope you will stick around to see how things develop. 
> 
> Special thanks to lewispanda for the beta.

At sunrise, Addam builds a small fire to ward away the morning chill. Brienne is the last to join them. Jaime half expects her to tell him she’s taking her leave, but she only crouches down next to Steffon, warming her hands. 

“What time shall we depart, Jaime?” Tybolt asks.

He shrugs, kicking the dirt. “Whenever we are ready. No point in staying much longer.” 

“Aye, or do you simply want to be away before Margaery changes her mind?” Addam nods knowingly. 

Brienne looks at him then, her mouth twisted in surprise, wide-eyed and vulnerable. 

*

The journey between Felwood and Ashford is not as far as their previous travels, but on the second day, it starts to rain. It does not lighten up for the rest of the afternoon and by the evening, when they usually stop to set up camp, Jaime insists they should press on, so as to get out of the poor conditions sooner. 

Brienne is used to all types of rainy weather on Tarth, but the storm does make it particularly unpleasant as they ride through open fields and rolling hills. Despite the leather jerkin she wears, the dampness has soaking through to her underclothes. Even if they stop to camp, there would be no hope of making a fire or drying off. 

It is near dark when they finally find a copse of trees which will keep some of the rain at bay. They make camp hastily and it’s barely more than laying their bedrolls in the mud. Brienne is half awake and shivering most of the night. It’s still raining when they wake and Brienne’s hands have begun to shake because of the cold. Addam notices and gives her a pair of his gloves, for which she thanks him profusely. “My pleasure, my lady,” he replies, giving her a wink. 

When they come across an inn that afternoon, the men let out a cheer. 

“Does that mean I should go in and inquire about room?” Jaime asks laughingly. 

Brienne nearly offers to go in with him because she feels guilty being the only one who cannot share a room. She will negotiate coin with him later, but she expects he will not let her pay him back. 

As the men begin to dismount from their horses, Addam catches her eye. She starts to slip off the gloves to return them to him, but he shakes his head. “You may keep them until the rain ends. I only wanted to say Jaime seems pleased that you decided to stay with us a little longer.”

No doubt her face is already pink from the cold, but her cheeks burn at the comment. “I am pleased to be here as well. Thank you.” Addam nods, his lopsided grin a bit of sunshine in all the gray. 

“We are settled,” Jaime says as he emerges from the inn. “There will be a boy out to help with the horses in a minute.” 

When they finally step inside, Brienne has never been more grateful to see a large fireplace stacked with logs and a blazing fire. As she stands before it, warming her hands, exhaustion begins to set in, a deep weariness settling into her bones. She could probably fall asleep standing there. 

“You are in the room across from mine and Addam’s.” A low voice startles her. Tearing her gaze away from the entrancing flicker of the flames, she notes how close Jaime is standing to her. The corners of his eyes crinkle up when he smiles, green sparkling in the firelight. His hair is still wet and he’s taken off his leather jerkin, but there is a damp ring around his tunic’s collar, where the water soaked through. The tunic is thin. He must have been freezing. 

“Is this all you wore?” she asks, astounded, almost reaching to smooth her fingers across the fabric. “You’ll catch your death, riding about in storms like this. But I suppose you are not as used to the rains where you’re from.” 

Jaime glances down at himself, brushing his wet hair out of his face, and giving her a wry grin. “I suppose you’ll have to teach me.”

“Do you have something dry to wear?” He nods. “Go change. Then come rest your feet by the fire so you can get warm.” 

“Turns out you are just as commanding outside of the tourney field,” he replies, eyeing her with a smirk. “You should change as well, my lady.” Jaime tugs on the end of her sleeve before he slips past her towards the stairs.

He is already in dry clothes, his feet propped up in front of the fire when Brienne returns. Her hair has dried from the rains, but instead of combing it straight, she’s allowed it a natural, gentle wave. He has seen her rumpled and sleepy in the mornings, but this is different. It seems to soften her whole demeanor. The calm of her eyes is a cool breeze on a hot, humid day. It reminds the sun that it is not the only element which can wield power. The wind has a strength of its own, just like the woman before him. 

As she approaches, he scrambles to his feet, nearly tipping his boot into the flames, and his chair scrapes across the wooden floor in his haste to greet her properly. “Lady Brienne,” he nods, hoping he does not sound as out of breath as he feels. She takes a seat to his left. “Is my attire now suitable?” 

He sits back down, stretching his legs out in front of him and tipping back in his chair, trying to grace her with a lazy, contented grin, but one which he fears is panicked and overeager. His face has a much healthier pallor, although his hair is still damp. “You do look better,” she acknowledges with a small nod. 

“The poor boy who helped with the horses looked half drowned when he came in, so I suppose we will wait out the storm. I gave him another dragon.” It was more than generous and no doubt would provide his family well. “The weather is a shame, though. I was hoping to spar with you again.” Jaime says, falling back easily into his gentle teasing of her. There is a familiar comfort to be found in the cadence of their conversation. Relief floods his body. He feels more sure of himself when he is content in their friendship, trust and respect slowly blossoming between them.

“There is time,” she replies, lifting her gaze to his. _If the ground ever dries_, she thinks. The Reach is fertile but muddy. During her training at Highgarden, there had been mud. So much mud. It splattered her gambeson and caked her armor. Brienne spent nearly as much time cleaning off mud as she did training. 

Daven, Tybolt, and the others come down from their rooms and order whatever food the inn has to offer. Brienne planned to make do with the rations she took from her saddlebags, but when she sees some sort of browned bird being served, her stomach rumbles. “You need to eat to keep up your strength,” Addam orders, practically steering her towards the table “Come.” 

They drink tankards of ale and tear the meat from its bones, licking their fingers, and sopping up the drippings with pieces of fresh bread, still warm. It is almost enough to make Brienne forget the dampness and cold from their ride. 

As the meal ends, the others rise from the table, settling in front of the fire, or going up to their rooms, but the two of them stay. Brienne is still sipping on the ale from the meal, but Jaime orders another tankard for himself.

There’s a comfortable silence which falls between them, but Brienne notices the concerned, somewhat distant look on his face. She nudges his knee with her own. “What are you thinking about?” 

“I suppose I should have told you about Margaery before.”

She is about to take a sip of her ale, but pauses, glass in midair. “You do not owe me an explanation, Ser Jaime.” Brienne remembers her observation at Felwood, Margaery’s hand on his arm. A sinking feeling of resentment swirls in her stomach. She was right, after all. There was something between them. 

“Addam likes to needle me about her, but it’s not--we were betrothed once. Not recently. I was young and she was a mere babe in swaddling clothes.” 

“Oh.” Brienne tries to think of something else to say, but she cannot, discomfort rising in her gut. Of course Jaime had been betrothed. He was handsome and from one of the wealthiest families in Westeros. “What happened?”

“Mace Tyrell annulled the agreement with my father after Robert forgave the Reach’s lords for their siege on Storm’s End. But Margaery must have got wind of it as she’s grown. She is not subtle.” If the Tyrells had kept their promise, Brienne can imagine it: Lady Margaery glittering in emerald and gold, Jaime wearing crimson and gold. His golden hair a contrast to her brunette. They would have the most beautiful children in all the Seven Kingdoms. Maybe she would be competing at their wedding tournament. The thought makes her stomach clench. Then she would not know Ser Jaime.

Perhaps she does need more ale for this. 

She starts to rise and offers to get him another, but Jaime reaches down, pulling out a small cloth purse from his boot, which she knows is full of coin even before he opens it. It makes her feel uneasy to have Jaime spending coin on her. Brienne isn’t sure how to communicate this to him, so she simply covers his hand with hers. “Stop. Let me pay for something. I owe you greatly.” 

“You do not owe me anything,” he replies with a smile. He has not moved his hand and she can feel the warmth of her fingers nearly tangled with his. Before Jaime can see her flush, she moves away to the bar, but her heartbeat pounds in her ears. To distract herself, she makes polite conversation with the innkeep as he refills their cups. 

When she returns to the table, Jaime suggests they move back by the fireplace. Once they are settled again, Brienne takes a long sip of the ale. “What about since then? You have never wished to marry?” It is out of her mouth before she even realizes and she nearly drops her cup, her hands shaking, eyes wide and terrified. “Forgive me, Ser Jaime. That was an impolite question.” Jaime dips his head, his face hidden from view, and she hates herself for being so thoughtless. “You do not have to answer. I apologize.” But when he looks up at her again, a smile is pulling at his lips, and his shoulders are shaking as he tries to keep in his laughter. She gasps, horrified that he would be laughing at her anxiety over her manners. She swats at his shoulder. “For seven’s sake, you cannot scare me like that. I truly am sorry.” But she is laughing too. 

When they both regain their breath, Jaime glances at her out of the corner of his eye. “To answer your question, there is no wishing when Tywin Lannister is your father. He tried to force my hand several times, it is true. First to Lysa Tully when I was twelve. He wants me to take my rightful place as Lord of Casterly Rock, but I have no patience for politics.”

The gossip she heard years ago, when she saw Jaime compete, made her think he often took the company of young ladies, but since she has traveled with Jaime and his men, he has not shown interest in anyone. The others have spent nights away from camp, but not Jaime. 

“He must have not been trying very hard. If he gave up on you,” she gestures vaguely towards him. “You are…” 

Trailing off, she wishes she had not brought it up at all, because a wicked grin spreads across his face and his eyes twinkle in the firelight. “I’m what?” 

Brienne’s face is flushed from the ale and the heat from the fire, but her cheeks tingle and she ducks her chin. “You _know_. You do not need me to say it.”

_But I would like you to._ He suddenly wants to hear those words tumble from her lips, wants to see her face color as she says them, wants to know what those big, blue eyes will look like when she does. “I suppose not,” he replies teasingly. His tone makes her blush even further, the pink from her cheeks spreading down the length of her neck to the collar of her tunic. Jaime blinks, trying not to imagine how much further it might go. He swallows thickly, raising his cup to take a sip of ale. 

A long moment sits between them before Brienne speaks, her tone no longer light-hearted, but tinged with sadness. “It must be nice to feel you have a choice.” 

“I had a choice compared to my sister, it’s true. I was allowed to pick up a sword, a crossbow, whatever I wished, because it was expected. Men will become soldiers. My father thought I would be like him. A soldier, a leader, a husband, a father.” There is guilt edging into his voice and Brienne starts to understand the pressure Jaime must have felt growing up, being the eldest son to one of the richest families in Westeros. “He wanted me to give all this up years ago. He wanted me to marry and produce another generation of Lannisters.” Brienne expects Tywin Lannister is a hard man to please. “I am not a brave man. I’ve been running away from my responsibility, but I do not think I would be good at it. Even if I gave into my father’s commands, I would disappoint him.” But she is surprised to hear Jaime thinks so little of himself. She’s seen his magnanimity and chivalry when interacting with those beneath him and there is no doubt he would be a gracious lord of Casterly Rock. 

“For what it’s worth, I think you would be a fair leader.” She says quietly and perhaps it is only the glow from the fire, but his eyes seem to sparkle at her words. 

“And you? Are you not the future Evenstar of Tarth?” 

Brienne nods, thinking of her father, who went to such great lengths to assure his only heir--a woman--could inherit the title as the Lord of Evenfall, one which had been passed down from father to son for generations. She thinks of Galladon and all the things which should have come to pass for her family. 

“My apologies, my lady. I didn’t mean to make you sad.” Looking up, Jaime’s eyes are searching her face and an intense gratefulness blossoms in her chest. She never expected to find understanding in a man like Jaime Lannister, but there’s an odd kinship growing, and Brienne is glad for it. His friendship is all the more reason to ignore whatever other feelings she imagines there to be between them. 

“I’m not. Only thinking of home.” 

He nods, as if he understands, but the truth is, although he sometimes dreams of Casterly Rock, of being young again and running through the maze of tunnels underneath its keep, diving from its cliffs, he does not consider it his home anymore. “Do you hear that?” he asks. 

“Hmm?” Brienne tries to stifle a yawn. The exhaustion from their long ride, the ale, and a full stomach are making her sleepy

“The rain’s stopped.” 

There is no longer the patter of water on the roof and she gives him a small nod. “Let’s hope it holds until tomorrow.” She stands. “I think I’ll retire to my room, Ser Jaime. But thank you for the conversation this evening.”

He puts his cup down quickly. “I’ll join you. We should all get some rest before tomorrow.” Suddenly aware that they are alone, Brienne cannot remember when they last were in the company of the other men. It feels strangely intimate and makes her ache for something long forgotten. As a girl, she knew the songs and stories of noble knights and beautiful maidens. Jaime could easily be one of the knights in the stories, but Brienne would never be the maiden. She was not small or delicate or beautiful. She was not Margaery. 

They climb the stairs, Jaime following her closely. As she starts to open the door to her room, she can feel the heat from his body as he lingers near her, despite his own room being across from hers. “Did you need something, Ser Jaime?” Her eyes search his face and as good as she’s grown at reading him these past few weeks, she does not recognize the look he’s giving her. 

“Only making sure you get to your room safely, Lady Brienne.” He emphasizes ‘lady’ and she’s reminded of the sarcasm he would place on the word when they first met. Now when he teases her, it feels as if his smile is only for her. His words are softer now, there is no bitterness in them. Something has shifted between them. His tone has turned from contempt to familiarity, nearing fondness. 

“I believe I can manage from here,” she says, a half smile on her lips. “Good night.” 

“Good night.” When Jaime enters his room, he’s glad to see Addam already in bed, back to the door, the candle flickering down to the nub. Another part of him wishes his friend were still awake so he could distract him from the feelings which have been pricking at him all night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> tumblr: @aliveanddrunkonsunlight


	7. Ashford

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But he does not look at her the same way he once did. When they first met, he saw a lumbering giant, but now he sees everything differently. The solid sweep of her shoulders, the taut line of muscles in her legs as they spar, yet he knows also the shy tuck of her chin and the soft blush of her cheeks. A warrior and a lady, both. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta, lewispanda!

Brienne scrambles to her feet. The way the light is streaming through the tent makes her worry it is already late in the morning. Has she missed the melee? As she pulls on her armor as quickly as possible, she spots Jaime entering the tent. “Why didn’t you wake me?” she demands. “I’m late.” 

“You have time yet.” He comes over to help with her pauldrons and vambraces. The warmth of his fingers burns through the thin linen of her tunic and her skin prickles with gooseflesh. “You should use my sword today.” 

Her arms held out to her sides as they are, she feels exposed, leaving her heart unprotected. She tries to search Jaime’s eyes for an answer, but he is concentrating on her armor. Her natural instinct is to have a shield to ward off anyone who might get too close, but she fears Jaime has already breached her walls. “Are you certain?” 

“There is no one better to wield it than you.” He looks up at her and her breath catches in her throat. Green and gold. He really is the most handsome man. Sometimes she forgets, because she knows him as more than simply the Golden Lion, but then something will remind her. “The best swords have names, you know. Name it and the better it will know your hand.” 

It is hard to break away from his gaze, but she nods, taking a step towards her bedroll, where she uncovers the sword from its hiding place. Turning back to him, she pulls at the hilt, unsheathing the blade halfway so she can see it in the light. Under the crimson tent, the metal looks even more red than she remembers. Jaime is watching her expectantly. Her head is full of names, swords from the old stories, swords which earned their name on the battlefield. “Oathkeeper,” she whispers, almost to herself, even though Jaime is standing close. Brienne raises her head to look him in the eyes. “Oathkeeper,” she repeats and his face blossoms into a smile. 

*  
He should be preparing for the joust, but he cannot resist watching her. He and Addam climb a small rise away from the viewing stand, which gives a good vantage point of the melee field. Jaime can spot her easily. Her blue armor makes her stand out in the mass of competitors. As they wait for the horn to sound the start, his heart hammers in his chest, as if he is taking on whatever nerves she may be feeling. 

She has unsheathed Oathkeeper, holding it close to herself, the blade reflecting in the sun. But when the horn is blown, he blinks and she’s already cut through a crowd of men. Addam gasps beside him. “With that blade, she is the Warrior come to life.” 

Jaime can scarcely breathe as he watches her move easily, the sword barely kissing others before they are on their knees, yielding. He thinks she looks like a figure from the songs, a blue knight with blonde hair and calm, enchanting eyes.

“Come on, come on,” he murmurs quietly, pacing back and forth, and clenching his fists at his side. This feels like a dangerous display of affection towards her, but it would be false if he did not show concern for her. There has been a dawning realization these past few days, one which he has held tight for fear of others seeing it in his eyes. They all stay in close quarters and it is hard to maintain anything for oneself as they travel together. He _knows_ he cannot develop feelings for the woman who he asked to ride with his company, the woman who carries his sword, and whom he respects for her kindness and strength. 

But he does not look at her the same way he once did. When they first met, he saw a lumbering giant, but now he sees everything differently. The solid sweep of her shoulders, the taut line of muscles in her legs as they spar, yet he knows also the shy tuck of her chin and the soft blush of her cheeks. A warrior and a lady, both. 

*

Jaime was right, she thinks. Oathkeeper is light in her hand. Quick to wield, almost as if she is doing nothing at all, as if it moves on its own accord. Was it magic? 

She grew up hearing the tales of knights and their swords. Ser Galladon of Morne and the enchanted sword he was gifted from the Maiden. Ser Arthur Dayne and his Sword of the Morning. This was Ser Jaime’s sword, one which he should be carrying, but which he had entrusted to her. Brienne imagines them writing a song about Oathkeeper and the maid he allowed to wield it. 

*

She has a thousand dragons to send to her father. Jaime won the joust, she won the melee, and they split their winnings evenly. The largest pot they have competed for, two thousand dragons, and they won. 

When they got back to the tent with their winnings, Addam poured everyone wine, and the celebrations had started. Both of them wanted to remove their armor before enjoying their victory, so while the men are drinking cheerily, Brienne sips her wine inside the tent, counting the coins again. Jaime watches her, a bemused expression on his face as he finishes off his cup. He flips a coin into the air, which arcs over his head, and catches it in his left palm before handing it to her. “Here,” he says. “For your father. For Tarth.” It’s another dragon. 

“Thank you, but it’s yours. You earned it,” she replies, shaking her head. 

“My family has plenty of gold. Take it.” Something in his voice makes her look up at him. She’s noticed it more and more lately. The sharpness of his face, all the prominent lines and angles of his jaw line, seem to soften when he looks at her now. Yet she always dismisses it, somehow. Tonight, it’s the low light of the tent altering his features, making his eyes glow. 

“No, I couldn’t.” 

“Brienne, stop being so stubborn.” Reluctantly, she reaches for it, the tips of her fingers brushing across the warmth of his palm. She can feel her cheeks flush, but Jaime doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Come out here and drink with us,” Addam calls to them from outside the tent. 

“I need to visit the horses, but I’ll be back in a little while. You should go out and join them,” Jaime encourages her.

The other men are settled around the fire, drinking a flagon of wine. Addam pours her a second cup. Normally, she might object, as she usually limits herself to half a cup, watered down, but she lets herself have a bit more tonight in celebration. She does not drink as much or as often as Jaime and his men do, but she feels comfortable with them and finds she enjoys it.   
As they sit by the fire, discussing the day’s events, her whole body begins to warm, her fingers and toes tingling from the wine, and the knots in her shoulders and neck have loosened. 

*

Jaime makes his way back through the encampments towards the Lannister tents. His horse had thrown a shoe and he wanted to check in with the smith. As he draws near the Lannister camp, he can hear an awful racket, which he slowly realizes is singing. He finds Addam leading the men in a rousing rendition of “Six Maids in a Pool”. Not surprising, considering Addam’s fine voice and ear, but he nearly gapes when he realizes Brienne has joined in. The song is one of his favorites, but it’s quite ribald, telling of Florian being the first to be between Jonquil’s thighs. As he stands at the edge of the fire, watching Brienne, a familiar tightening returns to his throat. Her face is lit by the firelight, her eyes glittering, and while he cannot see it in the darkness, he would bet a dragon that her cheeks flush every time they sing the line about thighs.

“Jaime!” Addam shouts between verses. His best friend pours him a new cup of wine as he continues leading the others in song. 

Brienne looks up, her eyes meeting his over the fire, and if he wondered if she was blushing before, he has no doubt about it now. The only empty space on the benches is to her left and he settles next to her, his shoulder brushing hers, surprised when Brienne stays pressed against him, her cup clutched in her right hand. 

He notices she’s fallen quiet, even as the men continue to sing. Pressing his weight further against her shoulder to get her attention, he gestures that she should join back in, practically shouting in her ear, so he can be heard above the chorus. “I didn’t come here to ruin your fun!” 

She shakes her head, putting a hand on his shoulder and leaning into him, so he can hear her. “You’re not. I’m glad you’re back.” As she moves her hand away, it casually brushes down his back. Brienne usually keeps her distance, unless they are sparring, and Jaime realizes this sudden show of physicality is due to the wine, rather than anything else, but it does not stop his body from reacting to her touch. His heartbeat quickens and he has to concentrate his energy on taking another sip of wine, so as not to focus on how much he misses her hand on his shoulder.

Jaime cannot resist teasing her and hopes it will help return things to their natural order. “How many cups have you had?” he inquires quietly, a quirk of his eyebrow. 

A slow smile stretches across her lips, one he recognized from seeing Tyrion in his cups all too often, and Brienne gestures the number with her fingers as she replies, “Three.” 

He glances over at Addam, who is sporting a huge grin. “Not watered down!” his friend declares happily. Jaime rolls his eyes at Addam, ever the mischievous drunk. “She’s keeping up with us!” 

“Then I have some catching up to do,” he chuckles, eyeing Brienne over the top of his glass. 

A minstrel has entered their camp, singing a new tune about the Lion of Lannister, which makes all the men howl with laughter, except for Jaime, who only looks embarrassed. He catches Brienne watching him and raises his eyebrows, smiling at her. She so rarely laughs, even in their company, and he loves how deep and full it is, how he can pick it out from his men’s, even as she tries to muffle her laughter with her hand. 

“Play The Bear and the Maiden Fair,” Steffon calls out. 

“I hate that song.” Addam replies with a scowl. “Sing a sweet one. A slow one.” 

Jaime chuckles, whispering to Brienne, “Addam has always been a romantic.” But Brienne has stilled. She recognizes the tune as one she often asked the singers to play when she was a young girl. She still hoped for romantic love then, found the song’s story enticing. But then she had gone to Highgarden to train with Renly’s men. They had played it there, too. The shift in her face catches Jaime’s attention because he says quietly, “You know it.” She nods, unsure how to explain. At first it seems fine, just another song, but then her chest seizes with panic. She remembers Hyle’s touch, Ambrose’s laugh. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to block out the memory. “Brienne? Are you feeling alright? Do you need some water?” 

Taking a deep breath, she stands, but her head is spinning, and it’s good Jaime is there to catch her as her knees buckle. He catches her upper arm with his hand, before his strong arm circles around her waist. Addam gets up to help, directing Brienne to put her arm around Jaime’s shoulders. The other men are still absorbed by the minstrel and do not notice. “I’ve got her,” he assures his friend and Addam nods, his eyes wide, but not doubting him. He passes Jaime a waterskin. 

He walks them out of the camp. “Where are we going?” she murmurs. 

“You need air, my lady.” 

She makes a face. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” 

“Which is precisely why I do.” 

Withdrawing her arm from his shoulders, she slips out of Jaime’s grasp. He worries, afraid she is not steady enough on her feet, but perhaps the fresh air has already done her good, because she seems capable, other than her face flushed red with embarrassment.

“Are you sure you’re alright? The song...” She is quiet and walks ahead of him, needing space, frustrated that he can read her emotions so easily, but then he has always been good at that. When she first encountered him on the tourney circuit, Jaime was able to get under her skin with his japes and taunts. She remembers the irritation and contempt she felt for him then and the fondness she has for him now.

Brienne follows the sounds of a small brook winding it way through the rolling, verdant fields. She is always drawn to bodies of water, perhaps because of her upbringing, her home surrounded by the sparkling blue sea. Now being near them evokes a peace within her, a feeling which she cannot find elsewhere, not even among the quiet rustling of the trees in the forest. Tarth was one of the few places she felt truly safe, truly herself. Jaime will look at her differently after hearing this, so she needs the strength of the water to aid her. She settles down on the bank, gesturing for Jaime to join her, steeling herself for what she is about to tell him. 

“I went to Highgarden when I was sixteen. My father had written to Renly, asking him to allow me to train with his men. It was all I wanted. I was so happy.” She recalls the excitement she felt as the ship from Tarth docked on the mainland, the nervousness as she made the long trip across the Stormlands to the Reach. She had not seen Renly since she was twelve and was unsure what to expect, knowing she would mostly be surrounded by strangers. But Highgarden was so beautiful and she loved taking walks along the Mander, a place so lovely it nearly made her forget her worries. 

The other men were much as she expected. They regarded her suspiciously, made crude comments, and called her Brienne the Beauty, among other things, behind her back. Ser Hyle Hunt was the first to speak to her. She thought perhaps he was why the others began to treat her courteously.

“They were nice to me. I was naive enough to believe it.” She hesitates, letting the sounds of the river wash over her. Brienne can feel Jaime watching her, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t push her into talking. “They started doing favors for me. Offering to clean my mail, bringing apples for my horses, or filling my wine cup. I was surprised because I did not expect to be welcomed. I was thankful for their kindness, but I did not seek them out. I-” Maybe she should have been more adamant, should have insisted she needed no help from any of them. “I thought they were simply being friendly. I laughed with some of them, talked with others. But it was not friendly at all.” She sucks in a breath, can feel the tears threatening to spill over. 

Jaime’s voice is gentle beside her. “You do not have to tell me if it pains you.” 

_It was not you who hurt me_, she thinks. It was them. “No, it’s all right,” she tells him with a shake of her head, stumbling on with it. If she can say it, perhaps it will have less of a grasp on her. “Next were the gifts. Flowers, a book, honey. One--one of them,” she stutters, because she can picture the men’s faces so clearly, thinks of how much they must have laughed at her every night in their tents. The poor, ugly, stupid Maid of Tarth. “Offered to rub the knots from my shoulders. Another tried to kiss me and I pushed him into the fire.” Every muscle in her is stretched tight as a drum. When she says it, finally releases it, her voice comes out in a low growl. 

“They had a bet.” This is what they had done to her, not just one or two of them, but _all_ of them, collectively, All the little ways they courted her--their favors, their remarks, their gifts--she could have endured those. She was used to being an object of scorn, but at least it was not a _wager_. “They all paid coin. They all tried to court me, but only because they wanted to win. To-” she musters up her strength to say the words, and thinks she manages to utter them, just barely, perhaps in more of a whisper than with the ferocity which she intended. “To take my maidenhead.”

Jaime has gone very quiet beside her. As she told him what each man did, he felt the dread growing in the pit of his stomach. The anger and disgust nearly chokes him. “If I ever cross paths with any of them, I won’t hesitate. I’ll kill them,” he splutters. 

“Jaime-” His blood is boiling in his veins, but his pulse slows a little when he realizes Brienne has called him by his first name. She always addresses him so formally--Ser Jaime--and to hear his name fall from her lips so familiarly makes him pause for a moment, thankful for her, even among his indignation. 

He knows she does not need his sympathy, but his first thought--other than to inflict physical violence on the men who did this to her--is to comfort, to soothe. “Brienne, you did not deserve to be treated that way. I hate you had to go through this.” 

“Before I left Highgarden, I made sure all of them faced me on the tourney field.” Despite the rage coursing through his body, he cannot help but smile at that. 

“I am glad to hear it, but why…” Jaime’s face colors in anger. “Why did you agree to ride with us? You had no reason to trust me, to trust the others.” 

While safety was always a concern, Brienne traveled alone because she had wanted to keep her identity a secret for as long as possible. Despite Renly’s letter of allowance, she knew she would be looked down upon, particularly if the smallfolk who populated the tournaments knew a woman was competing. Often times, she found, smallfolk were more narrow minded than lords and ladies. Traveling the tournament circuit, she could not avoid encampments of men, and during those nights sleeping among them, she kept her guard up, her armor on. 

“Did I not? Have you forgotten how you burst into my camp at Silverhill?” Her voice is gentle. 

“You scarcely trusted me then.” 

“It does not matter. Your intentions were good, and I realize I never thanked you for it.”

“I suppose.” His tone is quiet, resigned. He feels guilty for putting Brienne in a situation where she may have felt unsafe. “I know you do not need protection, Lady Brienne. You are handier with a sword than I, but truly, I do not understand. Why agree to stay with us when you had been treated so poorly before?” 

While she was fretful about Jaime’s company at first, in the months they have spent together since, he’s shown her great generosity, concern for her well-being, and appreciation for her swordwork. At Felwood she was hurt by his harsh words, but since then he’s been more than courteous. He has never taken advantage of her, never considered her a joke as the men in Renly’s camp did. If she has hesitations about him or his men, they dissolved somewhere along the paths they’d ridden through the Stormlands, the Westerlands, and the Reach. 

“I confess I did have my suspicions at first. You were not what I expected. I suppose because of your family name, I had ideas of what you might be like. But that is what is admirable about you, Ser Jaime. You treat everyone equally.” 

“I have not always treated you fairly, I fear.” 

She could not argue, exactly, because they had their disagreements, but the reason she’d chosen to stay with the Lannister men was less to do with stupid remarks made in anger, and more to do with the feeling of acceptance she felt among them. “The first night I stayed with your camp, no one mocked me. No one balked at what I looked like or who I was. It was the first time I didn’t feel like an outsider.” Brienne hopes he is hearing her, hopes he won’t simply brush it off with another self-effacing remark. “I trust you.” 

He stills at her words, adoration growing in his heart at the sincere look in her eyes. Jaime trusts very few people himself, and Brienne, who is one of the most skeptical people he’s ever met, admitting she put her faith in him willingly, respected him and his men for how they treated her, makes him want to guard her even more fiercely from the hardships of the world. 

She does not _need_ him. But she _chose_ him. Brienne has been questioned at every step in her life. She’s been called every cruel name, and yet when she fought back, she did it on her own terms. Jaime has seen her respond to the world with only kindness in her heart. He is overcome by the idea of someone so honorable choosing him and his small company of men. That is more than enough for now. 

He takes a shuddering breath and says, “I trust you, too. And I admire you. Your strength.”

Before he realizes what he’s doing, he moves his hand towards hers, his thumb tracing along her wrist. Brienne cannot look away from their hands, even as she feels the warm weight of his against her palm. _This is the wine, this is the wine. This cannot be happening._ Something surges in her gut and she realizes perhaps the most frightening thing of all. She _wants_ it to. But she cannot let herself believe his words. He only said he trusted her. Admired her. Respected her. “You should not say those things unless you believe them.” 

“I do.” Jaime says quietly and his eyes are steady on hers.

Her stomach flips. After telling him everything, he is not looking at her differently. He is looking at her longingly. She cannot comprehend it. Brienne has learned to lock her desires deep within her, so she could protect them. By hiding them away, she could keep herself safe. Safe from disappointment, from hurt. But when Jaime looks at her the way he is currently, it’s as if he knows all of her desires without her saying a word. 

She turns her body towards him and leans forward until her lips are on his. It is only a mere moment before she realizes what she’s done, before she’s pulling away, scrambling to her feet, and perhaps Jaime has said her name, but she cannot hear him because every instinct in her is screaming to run away or to throw herself in the river. Instead, she simply stands there frozen, because she cannot seem to make up her mind and _move_. 

Her face colors the fastest he’s ever seen it and she draws her hands away from him quickly, clenching them into fists at her sides as she stands. “I--my apologies, ser.” 

“Lady Brienne...” But it is too late, she moves away from him, down the river bank. He wants to touch her, to comfort her in some way, but he does not want to frighten her. He knows even if he told her how he feels, she would not believe him. 


	8. Highgarden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you yield?” He taunts her like the first time they met on the melee field, as if he is trying to provoke her anger, but she catches the flash of his smile. 
> 
> “You underestimate me, ser.” Brienne grunts out, blocking his attacks, which come quick and sharp. 
> 
> “Oh, I know better than to do that, Lady Brienne.” His voice dips low when he says her name. A challenge or an invitation, she is unsure which, but it makes her stomach clench, her blood pumping loudly in her ears. As soon as she has enough room, she throws herself towards him. She crashes against Jaime and the two of them fall, breaths escaping them both as they hit the ground. Brienne is on top of him and as he scrambles for his weapon, she pins his shoulders under her hands, her knees on either side of his legs in the dirt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW.
> 
> Enjoy, everyone.

She hates this. 

Jaime has not said a word to her since the night before. _The night before._ When she kissed him and ran away. She’d come back to the tent, relieved to find most of the men still outside around the fire, so she could more easily hide her tears as she slipped into her bedroll. When Jaime returned, he asked Addam if she had come in. She was terrified he might try to speak to her, so she pretended to be asleep.

Brienne did not greet him in the morning, as she usually did. They said nothing to each other as the six of them started out towards Highgarden. She could not even _look_ at him. Except she had been looking at him all morning, watching the back of his head bob along. Every so often it would turn to his right, towards Addam, or Daven, who was slightly behind the both of them. 

Her actions last night destroyed the trust building between her and Jaime. She cannot even think about it without her face burning. The only solace she finds in their current situation is the other men do not seem to notice anything is amiss between them. Perhaps Addam did. He is tossing her concerned looks every now and again.

*

Mace Tyrell, like nearly everyone else in Westeros, thinks he owes some debt or other to the Lannisters, so when they arrive at Highgarden, they are offered rooms. Jaime tries to object, knowing the castle is full of guests for Lady Margaery and Renly’s wedding, but the old man won’t hear of it. Despite Brienne’s history with the place, he knows she was looking forward to making their camp along the Mander. He hates to disappoint her, but does not have a chance to speak to her before she is swept off towards the ladies’ chambers. 

He barely sees her the rest of the day. She is at dinner that evening, but many of the wedding guests have arrived, so the hall is already quite full, and Brienne is seated with other Stormlanders. She looks quite happy there, her face softened by candlelight, a laugh spilling from her lips. 

The next morning, Loras invites them to use the training yard. Jaime is mid-movement, sword raised at Addam, when he glances up and finds her watching them from the corner of the courtyard. During a break, Jaime drinks thirstily from the waterskin and looks up to see she is standing nearby, looking tentative. 

“There you are,” he says, trying his best to sound jovial. They have scarcely spoken since Ashford and he does not want to scare her off. “I’ve been looking for you all morning. Addam has already beaten me soundly,” he gestures towards his friend, who sits with his hands on his knees, sweaty and breathing hard. “But I am always happy to take you on, my lady.” 

A ghost of a smile appears on her lips before she speaks. “Have you gone soft, ser?” Her blue eyes flash in the morning sun. “I have never seen Addam best you. Are you unwell?” 

Addam snorts behind him. Jaime glances at his friend before turning back to Brienne, quirking his eyebrows up at her, always game for a challenge. “If you want to begin with words, we will do so.” 

“No, I am not so much a fool to think I am as sharp as you, Jaime.” Alarm blooms in her face as she hastily corrects herself. “_Ser_ Jaime.” 

Crossing the yard, he leans in as he passes her. “I like when you call me Jaime,” he intones lowly. Brienne looks as if she’s nearly swallowed her tongue but follows him into the sparring yard. Daven and Tybolt pause in their movements to watch. 

There is a tension to their practice, but Brienne does not seem to notice. She prepares for their fight, ready to anticipate his movements. It sends a shock through him to find, if not outright disgust, a distaste for him in her eyes. He wants to be the one responsible for softening her gaze, not for her irritation or disdain. Jaime forces himself to focus, so he steps forward, making the first move.

*

It’s comforting to take out her frustrations in the training yard. It’s what she’s done most of her life. If someone told her she wasn’t allowed to do something because she was a girl or called her ugly, she would work out her feelings with a sword in her hand. 

She’d hoped to find the yard empty, but of course they are all there, and once Jaime spots her, she cannot leave. Brienne would not want it to appear she is running away again. She would have to face him eventually, she simply did not expect it to be in the practice yard. 

He attacks first, but her feet have grown quicker and she moves out of his way, conserving her energy. “Very good,” he compliments, eyes dancing. His tone sounds condescending, as if she’s still learning rather than someone who has won tourneys by her own merit. The spike in her pulse sends her towards him, delivering a harsh series of blows, which he manages to block. But she has him ducking, off his rhythm, and there’s a frightened look in his eye which nearly makes her soften, thinking of the gentle way he slid his palm into hers, wondering what it would feel like cupping her cheek. She cannot allow herself to imagine it. Jaime uses her momentary hesitation to fight back and suddenly she’s the one on the defensive. 

“Do you yield?” He taunts her like the first time they met on the melee field, as if he is trying to provoke her anger, but she catches the flash of his smile. 

“You underestimate me, ser.” Brienne grunts out, blocking his attacks, which come quick and sharp. 

“Oh, I know better than to do that, Lady Brienne.” His voice dips low when he says her name. A challenge or an invitation, she is unsure which, but it makes her stomach clench, her blood pumping loudly in her ears. As soon as she has enough room, she throws herself towards him. She crashes against Jaime and the two of them fall, breaths escaping them both as they hit the ground. Brienne is on top of him and as he scrambles for his weapon, she pins his shoulders under her hands, her knees on either side of his legs in the dirt. 

*

Jaime’s breath is knocked out of him as he hits the ground, her weight on top of him. There are questions in her eyes--doubt and sorrow--the sadness is what confuses him the most. Based on her actions alone, he would have guessed she was angry, not hurting. If he wants the answers, he will have to ask. She will never say, instead will hide away whatever feelings she may have. Perhaps it is why he recognizes her fear so easily. They’re similar in this way. Does she regret it? Think he will reject her? Will she leave their company because of what has transpired between them?

Brienne’s lips are parted and her breaths come sharp and quick. Her eyes dart down to look at his lips. _Fuck._ Jaime’s cock stirs, but he cannot tear his gaze away from hers. If the others weren’t watching their every move, he would grab her and kiss her right then. “I yield, my lady.” 

Only a momentary look of victory crosses her face before she sits back and then rises to her feet. She extends a hand towards him and he takes it, allowing her to help him up, desire mixing with adrenaline as her palm slides across his. As soon as he is on his feet, she drops his hand and gathers her sword, keeping herself turned away from him. 

*

After the ceremony and the feast, there is dancing. Brienne stays at the edge of the room, but no matter where she is, there always seems to be a view of Margaery and Renly. She expected to feel more. Upset or envious or at the very least, numb. As it is, her eyes keep traveling to the man with golden hair and a darkening beard. He is weaving through the crowd, trying to get to her, but as soon as he draws near, someone stops him and ever polite, Jaime pauses to speak to them. 

When he finally arrives in front of her, his green eyes are softened by the candlelight of the hall, but it is easy to spot the spark hidden underneath. How different the features of his face appear to her compared to when they first met. They are familiar, comforting, but still a touch impenetrable. “A dance, my lady?”

“I am not much for dance, ser.” 

“You danced with Renly. You are quite capable, if I recall.” Brienne remembers how Renly questioned her that night. Everything he believed about Jaime is wrong. She does not have to think or worry about her safety among Jaime’s men. He has provided her with more than she would ever think of asking. “Will you really deny me, Lady Brienne?” 

It is not the dancing which makes her hesitate. It is the idea of dancing with _ him _ . Feeling the press of their bodies, the heat and the scent of him rushing to her head. Perhaps her reluctance also has to do with the conversation she knows they will have. He will ask and she will have to answer. _ Why did you kiss me? _ She can see the smirk on his face, as if this is all some jape to him, a fun incident they will look back on and laugh about someday soon. 

But it is not a jape to her. Her actions may have been misguided. She kissed him because she had confided in him, told him something which she had not told anyone else. For once, she allowed herself to be vulnerable, torn open. She let Jaime see the darkest parts of her, fully expecting disappointment, disgust, or rejection, but he had not run, he had stayed. He continued to treat her with kindness and respect. 

Goodness and honor, she is learning, are easy to fake--even love--but kindness, true kindness, does not abide in falsity. Jaime has such a good heart, although he doubts his way sometimes, but she sees it in him every time she looks at him. 

His hand is offered, low, by his side and she barely has to raise hers to fill it. Ducking her head, she allows Jaime to pull her through the crowd to the dance floor. Her throat constricts with embarrassment, knowing others are watching, commenting on how Ser Jaime is always courteous, taking pity on the giant maid who is never asked to dance. As if sensing her trepidation, Jaime gives her a gentle, encouraging smile, before he draws their joined hands so her fingers are fitted into his. Even with the feelings which are twisting inside her, she places a tentative hand to his shoulder. His other hand settles at her waist and they begin to move to the music. At first, she keeps glancing down at her feet so she will not accidentally step on his toes, but Jaime tilts her chin up so she is looking at him. “You are a fine dancer, my lady.” Brienne’s face burns and she is all too aware of his touch as he slips his hand back to her waist.

As they turn in sync with the other dancers, he is vaguely aware of others staring at them, disbelieving that he would dance with someone like Brienne, but he can barely look away from her. “You were right about him,” Brienne says and Jaime is momentarily is confused by her meaning, until he notices Renly watching them from the head table. He must not hide the surprise on his face, because she acquiesces again, this time her tone sadder than the first. “You were right.” 

He’s never understood her affinity for Renly. At first, he thought it was because she was a Stormlander and she was simply supporting her own, but he could see the man did not care a whit about her. He treated Brienne with callous charm, but he did not value her as he should. If he did, he would instate Brienne in his guard and help her with Tarth’s troubles, but he was too concerned with making a grasp for power and hiding himself under the guise of his marriage. 

“You said he was one of the few people who was good to you.” 

“He is. Was,” Brienne is disconcerted. “For his coming of age, he visited all the great halls in the Stormlands. He visited Tarth and I....I was nothing to look at then either, but he chose to dance with me. It was the only time a boy showed any interest in me. Even then I knew it was a courtesy, but it made me feel...special.” He is only beginning to know this side of Brienne, the one who doubts her worth based on how others view her, but it cleaves his heart in two.“But now, he is different. False. Perhaps I never knew him at all.” 

Despite his own feelings towards Renly, he does not like the bitterness which creeps into Brienne’s voice. It sounds too much like himself. Always doubting, never giving anyone more than a second’s impression before rushing to judgment. “You are a good judge of character. Even if he has changed, it does not mean that you should discount your memory of him.” 

Brienne looks almost grateful for the allowance. “Thank you,” she whispers. “He was kind to me, back then.” 

Jaime tightens his grip on her waist, drawing their bodies closer together. He can see the flush in her cheeks and the bob of her throat as she swallows. “And I, my lady, am I not kind to you?”

“About some matters.” She may mean her tone to be teasing, but it comes out in a gravelly whisper instead, igniting a heat which travels the length of Jaime’s spine. 

*

The music stops and a smattering of applause for the musicians travels through the hall. Brienne is quick to drop Jaime’s hand and step away from him, allowing herself a breath, but she does not stop thinking about the grip of his fingers at her waist or how he had pulled them close. 

When Daven spots them and waves excitedly, making his way over to tell Jaime something, she takes her leave of them. She seeks refuge on one of Highgarden’s many balconies, looking out over the grounds, remembering how during her breaks from training she would take long walks along the Mander or through the various castle gardens. 

Even as she tries to focus on her pleasant memories of the place, her mind turns back to the man she danced with a moment ago, the one who has been more than kind to her, more than courteous.. She is not so delusional to believe he would ever care for her, not romantically. Not her--she is always _too much_ \--too manly, too strong, too tall, her lips too plump, her teeth too large, her body covered with too many freckles. And yet, the way Jaime _looks_ at her makes her wonder. 

She can sense him behind her. She can hear the tread of his boots on stone and feel the heat from his body as he sidles up beside her. “You left. Why do you keep running away from me?” From anyone else, it may have sounded accusing, but Brienne knew him well enough. Jaime often masked his meaning by his sense of humor. He did not have the nerve to ask her about why she had kissed him at Ashford, why she had run away. 

“Did you come to seek another dance from me?” 

“I would be glad to dance with you all evening, but that is not what I was speaking of.” 

Her voice is small, choked, as she asks him. “Can we please forget what happened at Ashford, Ser Jaime?” Her chin trembles and she has to look away. Cannot let him see her yearning, cannot let him know that she wants more than his friendship. He would never be able to give it to someone like her. She learned it with Renly and is determined not to put herself through the same anguish again. “We are friends, and I am grateful for it.”

“I am glad we are friends as well. I do not wish to change that, but there is more which I think you should know.” Her eyes are full of apprehension and her brow tightens, creating those two creases on either side of the bridge of her nose. “Lady Brienne, I desire you.” 

She doesn’t know what to say or how to react. She cannot look away from him. He is telling her what she imagined was not fantasy, what she feels for him, he feels too. _It’s impossible._ Her hands are shaking, so she clutches them at her sides, willing them to stop. “And I think you may feel the same. Do I embarrass you?” his voice so low it’s nearly a whisper. Brienne shakes her head as he steps closer. The heat from his body so near her own, the scent of him--salt and sweat and leather and the spices in the tea he drinks--makes a warmth rise between her thighs. Then he places a gentle palm on her cheek, his eyes flicking down to her lips, and she nearly screams from the wanting ache of it. 

Gently and slowly, his lips brush against hers, as if he is asking permission, and she almost cries out in relief. Instead, she opens her mouth slightly and Jaime deepens their kiss, still treating her delicately, as if she might bolt away from him. The soft scratch of his beard against her skin makes her pulse quicken and Brienne slips a tentative arm around his right shoulder, drawing him nearer. The weight of him pressing her up against the stone of the balcony makes her sigh. His hand moves from where it cups her cheek, brushing gently across the shell of her ear before settling into her hair, a slow caress of his fingers along her scalp. 

A whole hall of people are mere steps away and at the thought of being caught, embarrassment tightens her throat, but she does not want to stop kissing him. “Brienne,” he murmurs and she loses all sense, hearing her name upon his lips like that. She throws her other arm around his shoulders, drawing him flush against her. Jaime grunts but does not move his mouth from hers, his fingers curling deeper into her hair, tipping her head back, so he can leave a trail of kisses along her neck. 

She sighs, his name half on her tongue, fully intent on stopping him. She means to object and claim that anyone could see, but oh, his mouth on her skin. Brienne did not know anything could feel as good, especially when the pleasant prickle of his beard lands just _there_. 

His movements are more fervent then, his fingers clutching at the fabric of her tunic, the other palming her hip as he backs himself into the balcony wall, pulling her along with him. “Jaime,” she laughs and color blooms across her face. He traces it with his mouth, over her cheeks, along her jawline, and down her neck, lower, lower. He pulls aside the fabric of her tunic as he nips and sucks at her collarbone. The friction his beard creates against her skin makes Brienne still in his arms, her breathing shallow. 

Her body trembles under his touch, her freckled skin splotched with blush. “We should go inside,” she whispers, but does not move, not daring to unwrap her arms from his shoulders.

“Do you wish to return to the feast? Or we could find somewhere else to go.” Brienne freezes and his stomach drops, knowing he has made her uncomfortable. “I apologize, my lady.” 

They are still wrapped in each other’s arms and she places her cheek against his, her nose nudging into his neck. “I am still-” she starts, the vibration from her voice creating a pleasant buzz across his skin.

“A maid, I know.” He draws back with a sharp sigh and takes her hands in his, bringing one of her hands up to his mouth to kiss it. She smiles, fairly glowing in the moonlight. He is not angry at her. He is angry at himself for pushing her towards something which he has no right to ask. “I am sorry.” 

“It’s alright,” she insists, squeezing his hand. “Come back inside?” 

As they enter the hall again, Brienne drops her hand from his. Jaime looks at her in askance, but she only gives a small shake of her head before their attention is redirected by one of Renly’s cousins--or so Jaime assumes, he’s never seen the man in his life--stands up and says drunkenly, “Time for the bedding!”

A chorus of equally drunk cousins, uncles, and other extended family members seem to agree, surely eager to rip Margaery’s garments off of her. Jaime glances over at Brienne, who is scowling. He touches her wrist and her face softens as she explains, “I have always hated this ritual. It feels...animalistic.”

“Then let’s find our way through the castle’s halls before they do.” He offers her his hand and this time she does not blink before taking it and following him. 

They depart in time, moments before the guests start yelling, “Bed them, bed them!” Soon, one of Renly’s kinsfolk will lift Margaery from her seat and Margaery’s ladies will do the same to Renly.

She may be innocent when it comes to romance, but she is not so naive to be unaware that men and women lie together before they are wed. It is a common occurrence at camp and one which she has often heard talk of. Only now, when Jaime has stated his desire so plainly does she begin to understand what others must feel, why they give in to their passion. There has been a thrum of something growing in her chest, her stomach. It pulses through her body as she follows Jaime through the halls and passageways of Highgarden. Nervousness, excitement, anticipation. She tries to name them, hoping it will dull or sate them in some way. But she knows the only thing which will is the man whose palm is tangled with hers. A deep swooping in her stomach makes her pause. Jaime’s hand tugs her forward, but she is rooted to the spot until he takes a step back and kisses her. 

As the sounds of the bedding echo through the castle, Jaime closes the door of his chamber behind them and presses her up against it, his mouth on her lips, trailing down her neck, and nipping at her ear. He says her name, half whispered against her skin, and she threads her fingers through his hair, kissing him hungrily.

The guests will stand at the door of the new couple’s bedchamber, shouting ribald suggestions, and listening for any sound. Jaime does not need any advice, he can think of a dozen or more ideas, as he moves Brienne from the door and lays her across his bed, unlacing his jerkin first. When she starts on her own, he covers her hands, and stops her. “Let me.” 

Jaime unties the knots and loosens the laces until he can slip it off her shoulders, his mouth meeting her neck as he does so. Her hand curls in his hair as she murmurs against him. His hands are already snaking under her tunic, exploring the softness of her skin under his fingertips, as Brienne guides him to kiss her again. His thumb brushes the underside of her breast and when she responds with a soft sigh, he reaches down to lift the hem of the tunic over her head. He wants to see all of her, but Brienne catches his hands. There is a longing in her eyes, but there’s innocence, too. 

He stills in his movements. “Are you certain? We do not have to go any farther.” He is surprised to find he means it. He would be content to lie here with Brienne and kiss her, stroke her skin, find all the things which make her sigh dreamily against him.

Her eyes hold a stony resoluteness. “I am,” she says ever so quietly, but nothing about her face or in her voice is reassuring to him. 

“Brienne,” he says, gently prodding at her defenses. “Be truthful.” He peppers small, light kisses over her cheeks, following the path of her freckles, before he draws back to regard her seriously. “Please. I would be...I do not take this lightly. If you are to wed-”

“I--that will never happen.” The certainty in her voice stops him but her eyes dart away from his. “I do not understand why you would…” she trails off. “...much less someone willing to take me as their wife.” Each sentence is murmured quietly, half spoken thoughts. 

When she finally looks at him again, there is vulnerability written across her face. All he can do is tell her how wrong she is, to _show_ her how wrong she is for thinking this way. 

“Brienne.” He cups her face in his hand and her eyes slowly travel back to him as his fingers trace along the bridge of her nose, her cheekbones, her jaw. “Because. You are strong. And kind. Not just kind. Selfless.” The words skitter out of his mouth, unable to speak quickly enough to tell her all the good qualities he knows her to possess. “You see kindness in others. You’re gentle when it is called for. And you are witty, whether you mean to be or not. And…” _ And. _ His lips dip to the hollow of her neck, beard burning across her skin. 

“Oh,” she exhales, a harsh, warm breath against his cheek. Now she is the one tugging at his tunic. She pulls it out of his breeches and over his head, marveling at how achingly beautiful he is. It’s nearly too much to bear, but her stomach flips upon seeing how his eyes are burning bright for _ her _. Brienne hands travel slowly along his skin starting at his shoulders, fingers trailing down his arms, her hand brushing through the light colored hair on his chest, memorizing every part of him as he begins to kiss her. Gentle, soft, slow kisses, mixed with rushed, hurried, needy. Some barely more than mouths colliding and teeth nipping and gasps for air. He has not dared slip his hand under her tunic again, but during one of their headier kisses, teeth nipping at her lower lip, he palms her breast and Brienne arches her back into his touch, leaving him hissing against her mouth. 

“Do you trust me?” he murmurs against her skin. 

“Of course.” He keeps his eyes on hers as he draws back, dropping a kiss to her chin, then to the collarbone peeking out from her tunic, before his mouth hovers near the object of his desire. The hardened nipple of her breast clear through the thin fabric of her tunic. He closes his mouth over it, not minding the cloth, eliciting a soft moan from her. He knows she wants his touch, his hands on her skin, but he makes her wait. Instead he lowers his mouth to her other breast, taking the taut nipple in between his teeth as Brienne writhes underneath him. “_Jaime._” 

“May I?” He asks, the fabric of her tunic already in his hands as she nods and sits forward enough so he can pull it over her head. Brienne’s hands warm on his chest, Jaime marveling at the brush of her skin against his as he kisses her. He is hard against her, but he tries not to focus on it, instead brushing his fingertips lightly across her breast, eliciting that gasp from her again. He shifts his hips slightly to adjust the way he’s sitting and then it’s his turn to gasp when she moves in response to him. Her eyes enchant him, calling him like a siren’s song, and he scarcely breathes as he rolls his hips again. Brienne’s head falls back, her neck lengthening as she momentarily loses herself to the pleasure of him grinding against her. Jaime moves again, a little faster now, and her hips buck against his. “_Yes_,” he coaxes, his mouth falling to hers, as they breathe together, move together.

It’s been so long since he’s been with someone he _wanted_. Women pursued him often, but most of the time, their interest waned after a night. That’s all they sought. Sometimes, he bedded them because it was easier than trying to puzzle out whether any of them were worth having in the first place. He always woke with a pit in his stomach, after those nights, and took a long soak in a bath if he could manage it. 

But he wants Brienne. Not only in his bed, but in all the ways you could have someone. 

He needs to touch her and for her to touch him, if she would. He reaches to unlace her breeches, but pauses, looking up at her wide eyes. “Do you want me?” She’s unable to speak, can only nod. “I need you to answer.” 

“Yes, I-” His lips crash against hers almost before she can finish her sentence. When they part, she places a hand on his cheek, a question in her eyes. “Will it hurt?” 

“Not this part.” He raises an eyebrow, but gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “The other, maybe a little, but I’ll be gentle.” She nods, believing him, trusting him. He kisses her again, slowly this time, as if to show her how gentle he can be. 

Brienne lifts her hips to allow him to pull the fabric down, untucks her long legs from the bed momentarily as he unhooks the breeches from her ankles. He glances up, her cunt nearly in his face, and he can see moisture on her blonde bush. He bites his lip, his cock growing impossibly hard. When he slips his fingers in between her folds, Brienne lets out a gasp, which he nearly drowns out with his moan. 

His fingers stroke inside her, gently at first, then faster. Brienne has gone quiet. He kisses the inside of her thighs. A soft breath. _I need to hear you_. It’s a selfish request, so he does not finish it, instead he buries his face in her cunt. 

As soon as his tongue touches her, Brienne’s hands thread through his hair, keeping him there, a firm pressure. He listens as her breaths grow louder, more labored. She sucks in a quick breath of air over her teeth and lets out a moan. “Jaime.” His name falls from her lips, whether it’s a scream or a whisper, he could not say, but it makes him smile against her. 

He takes his time, wants to find what she responds to the most, wants to elicit an animal cry from her lips. Her legs begin to tighten around his head and he can tell she’s close by the way she is holding herself so tightly. She is magnificent. Even though she is under his control, he can feel her strength, her power over him. His name is the moan in her throat and she grinds her hips against him, asking for more. If he could speak, he would match the noises she’s making, but he continues to use his mouth and tongue. 

Under his guidance, her body begins to shudder as the waves of pleasure overtake her. His eyes flick up to face, unable to get enough of her, and he watches as her mouth falls open, her moans softening to breathy cries as she comes down. Brienne slowly relaxes her legs and her fingers flutter over his hair, as if she’s unsure whether she can touch him. He kisses the inside of her thigh before he moves back up her body, a hand touching her pinkened cheek, wanting her to look at him rather than avert her gaze. “Brienne,” he says, gently trying to turn her chin towards him so he can kiss her. “Are you afraid?”

She shakes her head and finally looks at him, those big blue eyes stunning him speechless. “No, not with you.” 

Her hand settles on his chest, tentative, and he wants to chase the doubts from her mind. All he wants is the whisper of her fingers on his skin, the longing way she is looking at him. “I--” Her whole face has pinkened, eyes sparkling in the firelight. “I did not know it would be…” Brienne’s eyes widen and Jaime chuckles, dropping a kiss to her shoulder. 

“I thought you might enjoy it.” 

The length of him is straining against his pants, brushing against her thigh, and if she is uncertain now, she does not show it, because she reaches for his laces and he nearly loses himself when her fingers merely brush against his stomach. “I...I want to make you feel the same way.” 

He nearly laughs, not because he wishes to mock her, but because he is happy. Her face is so earnest, he wants to scoop her up and take her away from all of this, somewhere they can be alone. “I am glad of it, but it does take some practice.” 

“Like sparring?” Jaime does laugh then and captures her lips with his. Brienne’s hand edges along his stomach as they kiss and he lets out a low murmur. 

“Yes, like sparring,” he manages to say, his voice gravelly as he lies back and lifts his hips to remove his trousers. Jaime turns on his side towards her, taking a deep breath. “You’ll have listen to me, though.” 

“I listen!” she objects, swatting him on the shoulder. Her eyes flick down to his cock and back up to his face and his breath stutters. “Can I…” He cannot speak, so he merely nods. When she takes him in her hand, his eyes roll back, and he bites his lip, letting out a hiss. “Is this alright? I mean, am I...” He forces himself to open his eyes, taking in Brienne, her face uncertain. He smoothes a hand across her cheek, his thumb brushing over her forehead, trying to erase the frown there. 

“Yes,” he manages to eke out, his hand falling to her shoulder and squeezing. Jaime manages to talk her through a bit, using his hand over her own to help her. She picks up on the motion quickly and soon his hips are bucking under her hand, moans of pleasure on his lips. He nearly falls over the edge, but rolls on top of her at the last second, pinning her down. “Stop. I need—”

“Please.” Brienne replies in a strangled whisper. He guides himself into her, trying to be gentle, even though his adrenaline is calling for more and faster, but he lets her adjust to him. When a slight grimace crosses her face, he reminds her to breathe. Her eyes flutter closed as he begins to move inside of her and Jaime hooks one of her legs over his. She murmurs against him, her top teeth biting her already swollen lips, her arms curling around Jaime’s shoulders as he thrusts farther into her. 

He will not last long. As he moves against her, he nips at her mouth, her neck, his eyes hardly ever leaving hers. When she catches him once in a searing kiss, he grinds against her, her cry of surprise mingling with his own, leaving both of them panting, warm breath exchanged between them, her name on his lips. After that, his movements become less controlled and more erratic. He may murmur half-strung together sentences or sweet nonsense in her ear, but he manages to tell her before he pulls out, spilling his seed half across her leg, and onto the bed sheets. 

Jaime wants nothing more to collapse beside her, to remember the stunned, marvelling expression on her face, but he pauses only to kiss her, before he rises from bed, legs still shaky, and gathers a cloth and the water basin. He washes the remains of his spend from her leg. As he cleans her thighs, he notices a faint trail of blood on the cloth. “You do not have to do that.” Her voice sounds very far away, full of heat and passion and something new. 

“I don’t mind.” He cannot resist the teasing note in his tone and Brienne smirks at him, before covering his hand with her own, pulling him in for another kiss, the slick of his sweat against her bare skin. He sighs against her mouth and places the cloth alongside the water basin on the bedside table before pressing her into the mattress once more. Drawing back, he surveys her face. Her pupils grown large, those blonde eyelashes making her eyes even brighter, her lips darkened with flush, and a smile shyly pulling at the edges of her mouth. He has made her look this way, has made her twist her muscled body in his sheets, has made her palm at his cheek as she takes shuddering breaths. The heat from their bodies cooling, their breaths slowing, he nestles closer to her, happy to have her lie in his arms as they drift off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my betas lewispanda and Cerulean_Phoenix7


	9. Casterly Rock - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So why do you ride under our banners?” 
> 
> “Respectfully, my lord, I ride for Tarth.” Daven shifts at the end of the table. Jaime can feel Addam’s gaze on him and he looks up to see his closest friend arching an eyebrow in surprise at Brienne’s boldness. He has seen the most valiant men in the kingdom, the smartest men, lordlings and soldiers alike, falter in the face of Tywin. But Jaime knows Brienne’s quiet inner strength. She does not blink, will not think it brave to answer honestly, but anyone being honest with Tywin Lannister is opening themselves up to an attack they never saw coming. 

When she wakes in the morning, there is a slight ache between her thighs. A thrum of pleasure pulses in her stomach at the sight of Jaime still sleeping next to her. Brienne wonders if she should feel more of a loss, at giving herself away to the first man who looked at her. No one has ever looked at her the way Jaime does, like she’s moonglow or starlight or the blue green shimmer of the waters off Tarth. 

For a moment, she lets it settle into her chest, but pressure, panic, and uncertainty are crushing her. She is still in his bed and does not know how she will get back to her chambers without someone seeing her, or without having to give an explanation. Doubts begin to populate her mind: whether Jaime was drunk last night, whether he will wake up and look at her with a distance in his eyes. 

But then Jaime is stirring beside her, sliding towards her and kissing her sleepily. She watches as he wakes fully, blinking against the light, his green eyes growing brighter with every flutter of his eyelashes. All of the same emotions she felt moments ago flicker across his face, but he goes somewhere she does not recognize, his brow furrowing and eyes darkening before coming back to her. 

Smiling his golden smile and murmuring, “Good morning,” as he moves to kiss her again. His hand traces along the side of her face, as if he’s memorizing her, all the while kissing her. Soft, gentle kisses interspersed with heady, needy ones. A coil of heat unfurls in her stomach and slowly spreads throughout her body as they lie together, seeping into her bones. 

Even so, the small pit which holds her anxiety, her nervousness, her vulnerability, seems firmly rooted inside her, its steady drumbeat echoing in her mind, even as she loses herself to his lazy kisses. A small part is not sure this is hers yet. 

“Jaime,” she laughs as he moves his mouth to her neck. He flashes her a grin and it feels like her secret to keep; a memory to lock away when all of this comes apart. 

“What?” he asks, murmuring the word into her skin. “I recall you enjoying me kissing you all over.” He demonstrates by pressing his lips to the sensitive place on her neck that he had lavished with attention the previous evening. 

Brienne lets out a soft moan, but the next second, slaps his shoulder. “You don’t have to sound so pompous about it.” 

“I had the best swordswoman in Westeros wrapped around me last night. That calls for at least some boasting on my part, does it not?” He stops his movements and props himself up on an elbow to look at her. 

Brienne’s blushes, the heat rising in her face. “You should not say such things. You’ll sully my good name, Ser,” she replies playfully. 

His eyes darken with concern. “Are you feeling alright?” 

“Yes, I feel fine.” She leans towards him to whisper, even though there is no one else who might hear. “I thought I might feel different. But I’m much the same, I think.”

“Good,” he replies, rubbing her arm. He has such a gentle touch despite the calluses on his hands, the same as hers. She reaches out to run her fingers along his jaw. His beard is getting long and she flushes again, remembering its surprising softness between her thighs, its pleasant friction. It would be easy to stay here with him all day, trying to sort out what he is thinking, how he can possibly gaze at her with such an enchanted look in his eyes. But she has the melee and he has the joust and she supposes there will be time to talk about all this later.

As if reading her thoughts, Jaime leans in to her touch, surprising her when he grasps her hip and pulls her close. “Are you prepared for the melee, my lady?” His voice dips low, sending shivers along her spine. 

Brienne bites her lip nervously, before whispering, “Perhaps I need a bit more practice.”

*

Jaime offers to escort her back to her room--she needs to dress and prepare her armor for the day--but Brienne shrugs him off, skittish. It is a new territory they have entered, but one which he hopes they have crossed into together. Her uncertainty and vulnerability are understandable, but he wishes he could soothe whatever doubts she still carries. 

There are worries he harbors as well. Mostly guilt that he is the man who claimed her maidenhood. He knows how hard it is for her to trust others, but Brienne had said yes and perhaps he is being too precious about it because of his feelings for her. 

There are still things to discuss. He feels protective of their budding relationship and most likely, she will be reluctant to demonstrate their feelings in public. With the close quarters they stay in much of the time, though, he is unsure how they will be able to keep it from the others. Addam is always giving him shit about how he never seems to like any of the women they meet, and now he has gone and fallen for the one staying with them. 

*

Brienne arrives in the hall shortly after he does. When he looks up and notices her, there’s a sharp tug in her stomach. A daring smile sweeps across his face as he gestures for her to join them. “Good morning, Lady Brienne.” Jaime greets her formally, as if she did not wake up in his bed. “You slept well, I trust?” She arches an eyebrow at him. He is flirting with her in front of the others and none of them are the wiser. 

“Yes, very well,” she replies as she slides onto the bench across from him, trying to hide her smile. “The bed was quite comfortable.”

He flashes a wink at her as he takes a sip from his cup. Brienne has barely tasted her oats, sweetened with honey and fruit from the castle’s gardens, before a squire is hurrying over to their table. “A raven for you, Ser.” He passes Jaime a rolled up piece of parchment. 

She glances at the other men and sees they have paused in their meals, too, eyeing Jaime as he unfurls the curled slip of paper and reads the message, his brow furrowing. Any other time Brienne might wait for Addam or Daven to speak first, knowing Jaime relies upon them as his closest confidants and advisors, but the concern on his face worries her. “What is it?” 

Jaime lets out a long sigh, and leans back from the table, looking resigned. “I have to leave. My father says there is a matter which needs my assistance.” 

“Then we should go with you to the Rock,” Daven speaks up. 

“No,” Jaime shakes his head. “You should stay and participate in the tourney, as you planned. I would not want you to miss out on the coin Mace Tyrell has promised the winner.”

“We will join you. You should ride home with your men,” Addam offers. The others nod in agreement.

Jaime looks at her. “What do you think, my lady? If you wish to stay, you need only say the word.” He is being considerate of her situation, because he knows for her, the coin does matter. Brienne thinks about staying, can see herself winning the melee, relishing the looks on Renly and Margaery’s faces, but her heart tugs her in the opposite direction. 

She bites her lip, thinking. “No, Addam and Daven are right. We should go with you.” 

“I appreciate you offering to accompany me, but it will most likely be a boring trip.” 

“Then we shall provide morale,” Tybolt adds. 

“And company on the journey,” Brienne says softly. He catches her gaze, lifting an eyebrow in surprise, before his eyes fall to the parchment by his plate. As the men finish their breakfast, Jaime motions to Brienne to join him. She follows him into one of the winding networks of hallways leading away from the grand hall and towards the ladies’ chambers.

“This outing will not be easy.” 

“The Rock is not so far from Highgarden. We have traveled farther between tourneys.” She is perplexed by his hesitancy. From what he has told her, his relationship with his father is complicated. Perhaps that is why he does not wish to go. 

“I do not mean the distance.” He trails off, uncertainty creasing his forehead. “My father is not a warm man. He is deeply skeptical of those he does not know.” 

“And you expect I will act poorly in front of him?” She suspects there is something he is not telling her about why he’s been summoned to the Rock. Uncertainty creeps into her tone. The worry she felt this morning winds itself through her body. 

Jaime must hear it because he replies quickly, “No, of course not.” He pauses, reluctant to tell her more. The carefully tended trust they have built between them does not seem enough now. _ Talk to me _, she wants to say. “He will--we cannot be friendly towards each other. I cannot even do so much as look at you or he will know.”

Her stomach plummets, her hands shaky. Of course. He is ashamed of her. It explains his ambivalence. “If you are embarrassed of me, then we do not have to do this at all.” Her voice is harsh, but hushed. As she moves away down the hall to her chambers, Jaime’s hand grips her arm to stop her. 

She whirls around to face him, anger and embarrassment already flushing her skin. What a fool she has been to believe him, to think he would want her. There are tears burning in her eyes as she meets his gaze, but Jaime’s green ones are soft as a forest glen. “No, Brienne,” he says gently. “That is not what I meant.” He reaches up to push back hair which has fallen in her face. She shuts her eyes briefly at his touch, taking a shaky breath. His hand lingers on her arm, reminding her of the way his fingertips burned paths along her skin. “But I do not want to put you in a situation with my father without warning. It would not be fair of me. He is cynical, scheming. I have seen him do cruel things in order to fall into favor with those who wield the most power. As I’ve told you, he wishes me to be wed already and if he senses the slightest inkling of our feelings, he will marry me off to someone else purely to spite me.” It sounds merciless, but she can tell by Jaime’s eyes what he says is true. 

*

The roar of the crowd at the melee echoes across the grounds as Brienne carries her small collection of belongings down to the stables. When she reaches the horses, she finds only Jaime there, clean shaven. “Your beard.” She says, surprised and aching to touch his cheek. 

“My father once came to see me in a tourney at Crakehall and reprimanded me for having unruly facial hair.” All of the stable boys are at the tourney and none of the other men have arrived yet, so Jaime places a quick, gentle kiss on her lips. “Thank you for agreeing to come.” He smiles at her. 

Jaime lets Addam lead their group as they take the Ocean Road north towards the Rock. Brienne has rarely traveled through the Westerlands and the scenery along the way is particularly beautiful. She wishes Jaime would remark upon the Westerland families or remark on the landscape. He is uncharacteristically quiet on the way, riding close to her, but barely speaking. 

When they take a break for lunch near Old Oak, she challenges him to spar with her. They are nearly too familiar with each other’s moves now. She blocks him every time he closes in and he does the same to her. Brienne lets her guard down for a moment and allows him to win their bout. His sword has barely dropped, breath barely taken, when the realization of what she’s done dawns in his eyes. “No, wench,” he teases, sounding the most like himself she’s heard since they started out. “Let’s go again.” 

Both of them are tired, sweating in the sun and when Brienne wins, Jaime pulls her behind a tree to steal a kiss from her. Her chest swells at the spark of joy in his eyes, but quickly the tension returns to his face, and again she aches to reach out to him, wishing to do more to comfort him.

When they stop to camp near Crakehall, Brienne can hear someone up late into the night. The next morning, Jaime is sporting dark circles under his eyes. By that afternoon, Casterly Rock comes into view. Perched at the very top of the colossal stone hill, the castle seems to shimmer in the distance. Brienne knows it is likely a reflection of the light off the Sunset Sea, but the Rock looks as if its made from gold. She glances at Jaime, but he does not look up to take in the view. 

Trepidation grows within her as they draw closer. Evenfall is set on the top of a cliff, too, but as they pass through the first gate, Brienne has to crane her neck up to see the tallest tower, shining like a beacon in the sky. Evenfall used to be intimidating and grand, but due to their financial situation, her father let most of the staff go. Now rooms grow dusty from disuse, the castle walls crumbling or the gray stone covered with moss due to Tarth’s frequent storms. 

The Rock is the opposite of all those things. As they are led into the large entrance hall, the floors are gleaming, colorful tapestries line the walls, and the attendants ask if anyone will care for mead, wine, or food before the evening meal. Addam and Daven seem more at ease within the castle than Jaime, who acts polite towards the staff, but his eyes remain distant.

Brienne glances up the wide marble staircase to see a man with graying hair. He is dressed almost entirely in black, except for the trim of his jacket, which is Lannister crimson. The way he carries himself is as grand as the castle they stand in, the movements of his arms and legs are sharp, precise. No room for error. There's no doubt this is Tywin. When he arrives at the bottom of the stairs, he draws Jaime near, a hand on his cheek. It is not a gentle or loving gesture, but a command, a reminder of Jaime’s position in the family. He is not Lord. Not yet. Slaps a hand to his cheek lightly. “My son.” It’s a statement. No emotion, no relief in Tywin’s voice that his kin has arrived safely, no inquiries into his health. 

“Father.” Jaime nods politely. 

“Dinner will be at 7,” he informs them, barely glancing around at the other men before climbing the stairs again, returning to whatever business he needs to attend to. 

*

Jaime is used to listening to his father drone on about politics at the dinner table. He’s grown accustomed to his father’s snide comments about his eldest son becoming a soldier, and his demands for Jaime to wed and take his rightful place as heir to Casterly Rock, but he could withstand all of that because it is what he’s endured for the past thirty years. Normally, Tywin keeps his attacks focused on his own flesh and blood and ignores Jaime’s men, unless one of them has done something particularly mindless, such as sired a bastard, so when he turns his attention to Brienne, Jaime tenses, ready to leap to her defense. 

“Lady Brienne, my son tells me you are not from the Westerlands.” 

Jaime looks up from where he is cutting through his venison. It’s just like his father to serve the best meat when they have guests. Brienne’s eyes widen when she is addressed by Tywin but she recovers quickly, answering in a steady, polite voice. It is neither the exasperated irritation when he teases her nor the soft whispers which he is coming to know so well. “Yes, sir, that’s correct. I’m from Tarth, in the Stormlands.” 

“I believe I know your father, Lord Selwyn.” 

She smiles softly. Jaime knows of Brienne’s respect for her own father. On their travels she has spoken about him, telling Jaime how for most of her childhood, people often told her that someone met Selwyn, they rarely forgot him. Brienne doubted the truth of it, thinking perhaps it was only people being kind to her lord father, but then she’d come to the mainland and found it to be true. Most lordlings did know him, even now when Tarth had fallen on hard times. It was a comfort to her to find him remembered fondly wherever she traveled. “Yes, I will send him your regards.” 

“And how did you come to be in the company of my son? My understanding is Tarth still supports the Baratheons, do they not?” Tywin narrows his eyes across the table at her. 

Jaime recognizes it; the hawk circling its prey. “Father, have you forgotten that you arranged a Baratheon Lannister union?” He retorts, a snideness in his tone, trying to deflect his father’s attention away from her. 

“I asked Lady Brienne a question, not you.” Tywin replies, disregarding his son as if he is a mere annoyance, an animal underfoot. Jaime scans his father’s profile and then moves his gaze down the table to Brienne. Her demeanor remains unruffled but her eyes reflect a dawning understanding.

“They do, ser.” She answers honestly, her voice clear but gentle. Jaime nearly smiles at the familiarity of Brienne’s tone. She has not come to make trouble.

“So why do you ride under our banners?” 

“Respectfully, my lord, I ride for Tarth.” Daven shifts at the end of the table. Jaime can feel Addam’s gaze on him and he looks up to see his closest friend arching an eyebrow in surprise at Brienne’s boldness. He has seen the most valiant men in the kingdom, the smartest men, lordlings and soldiers alike, falter in the face of Tywin. But Jaime knows Brienne’s quiet inner strength. She does not blink, will not think it brave to answer honestly, but anyone being honest with Tywin Lannister is opening themselves up to an attack they never saw coming. 

“If you are your own man--pardon me, if you are your own _ woman _, then why do you seek refuge with my son?” Jaime watches Brienne closely. There are no qualms to be found in her features. She is not talented at hiding her feelings, but tonight she is a stone wall. Unwavering in front of Tywin Lannister.

His regard for her grows tenfold. There is a warmth blossoming in his chest so fierce, he feels an impetus to act somehow. To do _ something _. He wants to laugh, wants to wrap her in his arms and thank her. 

Even though she is navigating the waters smoothly, Jaime is stupid enough to open his mouth. Afterwards, he blames himself for forcing his way into it. If he had let Brienne stand her ground, the worst of it would not have happened. It was his father’s ire towards his son’s carelessness which caused him to say what he did. “I am the one who offered her our company, father. Lady Brienne did not ask for anything.” 

*

Brienne has never seen him as cowed as he is in front of his father. Jaime is barely himself at all. His face is dour, as though he has smelled something rotten. He does not smile, laugh, or make japes. She understands why. One look from Tywin is enough to make even the most powerful Regent fall quiet. She says a silent thanks to her own father for letting her exert her will. She cannot imagine what it would be like to grow up under Lord Tywin’s thumb. Certainly there were no minstrels, no songs, and very little laughter. _ Very little love, _she thinks, and there is a deep pang in her heart, because despite everything else she has faced, she has never doubted her father’s love for her. Jaime was not as lucky. 

“I see,” Tywin says coolly, turning his gaze onto his son. “And did you think how it would reflect on your name to bring someone who is not one of your sworn bannermen into your fold?”

Brienne opens her mouth to defend him, but Jaime shakes his head at her. She is quickly learning why his hesitancy to have her visit the Rock was warranted. While Jaime’s own clever remarks may aim to get under someone’s skin, there is rarely true malice in them. With his father, it is the reverse. Tywin does not bother to hide his in social niceties. 

“Lady Brienne is trustworthy. She has proven her loyalty, even if it is not sworn allegiance.” 

“It is not her loyalty I am concerned with. It is your reputation, _ our _ reputation. You have lowered this house by allowing idle gossip to fester.”

Her cheeks burn and she quickly surveys the other men at the table, many of whom seem absorbed by the food on their plates, pretending to ignore the drama unfolding before them.She can hear Jaime muttering under his breath, “This is madness.” 

“She is a woman, Jaime!” Tywin’s outcry seems to be based on his son’s nonchalance. Brienne notes a couple of the men flinching, but Jaime does not. “Did you not stop for one moment to consider how that might look?” 

The hall falls silent. Jaime waits. It is a quiet retaliation against his father’s earlier outburst. He will not meet Tywin in the low field to sling mud with him. When he finally speaks, his tone is firm but quiet. “I offered Brienne a place with us because she required _ safety _. Why would people care?” 

Her pulse is pounding in her temples. When she and her own father fought, it was nothing like this. She was still expected to attend dinner, but would sit in sullen, stony silence. She admires Jaime for not being afraid to go toe to toe with his father, a far more intimidating man than her own. He is doing it for her sake--to protect her--even though she would never ask him. He’d done the same at Silverhill, defended her, took her in. 

“This is why you need to stay here and learn how to be a good leader.” Tywin dismisses his son’s disbelief all too easily, as if he’s swatting away a fly. “Lady Brienne, you realize what everyone thinks about you being a member of the Lannister camp, do you not?” Lord Tywin’s admonishments reverberate deeply in her. Of course she has thought of what people might say about her decision to join Jaime’s camp. It would be lying to say she has not wondered. First, it was Renly questioning her loyalty, and by now, no doubt others have speculated about why Ser Jaime might take an interest in her. She cannot bring herself to say any of it. Not when everyone’s eyes are on her, not when Tywin levels his gaze. “An unwed woman, camping with a tent full of men. How do you suppose that looks?” 

“I apologize, my lord.” Jaime was right about his lord father’s penchant for cruelty and although she is chastened by his condescension, it makes her marvel all the more at Jaime. Tywin’s son does not resemble him at all. At first, Jaime appeared to be cutting and snide, but she found him good-hearted and loyal. He seeks approval and love from those who earn his respect, because now it is clear he never received either during his childhood. 

“You will do no such thing,” Jaime tells her crossly, but she has already bowed to Tywin’s wrath. He is the tallest, strongest wave coming towards her. It will crash over her, pound her into the dirt until she cannot breathe, but she cannot do anything to stop it, to get out of its way. She simply must let it come. 

“Thank the gods, you are cleverer than my son.” Tywin gives her a simpering smile. “They think Jaime has allowed you into his company because you warm his bed every night.” 

“That’s enough!” Jaime shouts, but his father speaks over him, raising his volume so he can be heard.

“I suppose you could lie with Daven or Addam, it pays me no mind, but when people see the Lannister banners, you know who they think of?” 

“Ser Jaime,” Brienne replies, obediently, quietly. 

“Precisely. I knew you were wise like your father. I cannot have my name or my son’s name dragged through the mud because someone like _ you _, from Tarth,” he spits out with disgust, “wants to play with swords. You will leave my son’s company as soon as possible.” 

“Stop!” Jaime smashes his goblet to the ground, the metal clanging on the stone floor makes Brienne cover her ears. The wine splashes up onto Tywin’s garments and but he wipes it away with a simple flick of his wrist. “I will not have you speak about Lady Brienne in this manner. Or my men. They are _ my _ men, father. Not yours. All of you, leave us now. I apologize for the interruption to your dinner, but I need to speak with my father. _ Alone _.” His green eyes blazing when he glances down the table. The men obediently push their chairs back, scraping and scuffling across the floor as they file out of the room, Brienne following behind.

*

Jaime’s whole body is wound so tightly, he hopes whatever Tywin might say next will be the hare trigger to spring him into action, which will allow him to clamp around his lord father’s leg, wounding him, like an animal in a trap. He knows it to be a useless wish, though. Nothing has affected his father since Joanna died. “Is this the only reason you summoned me? Because of these absurd rumors?”

“They_ are _false then?” Tywin regards him with a raised eyebrow and for a long moment, Jaime is afraid he knows. “I did not think she seemed your type,” he continues. “Although I suppose I do not know what sort of women you find appealing, as you have rejected all of the betrothals I have made for you.” 

He nearly makes a cutting comment about how he will continue to do so because he has no wish to be Lord of Casterly Rock, but thinks better of it. “Brienne will continue to ride with our company. She has nowhere else to go and it would reflect poorly on you if Brienne returned to Tarth and reported your disregard to her father.” 

“Lord Selwyn fell out of political favor years ago. He has driven his island into financial ruin.” A cunning look crosses the old man’s features and Jaime braces himself. “Maybe it would be a wise idea to keep the Maid of Tarth in our good graces. She could be key to securing the east.”

He nearly laughs in Tywin’s face. “Perhaps you should have considered that before you called her a whore,” he mutters, not hiding the bitterness in his tone. 

“You will wed.” It was inevitable that his father would turn to threats of marriage. “If not by choice, then I will make a match like I did for Cersei. And you will return to Casterly Rock and take your rightful place as heir.” 

“By _ choice _?” He exclaims in disbelief. “Is that what you would call this new plan of yours? Manipulating your heir and Lady Brienne, an innocent woman, so you may gain power in the east? Is that not why you married Cersei to Robert? If you want to drive me further away from my duties at Casterly, you are achieving it! We leave in the morning.” 

“There are worse things than carrying out your duty to your family. I know Selwyn has sought a betrothal for his daughter for years.” Tywin presses his hands together, trying to hold himself back from seeming overeager, but there is a familiar glint in his eye, the same scowl he wears when he has an unscrupulous idea. “His offers have been scant, to say the least, and now that his lands have fallen on hard times, he could do with a small windfall. He would not be able to say no to Lannister gold.” He pauses, long enough to make Jaime uncomfortable. His cold gaze sizing up his own kin. “Our offer would have to be lowered, though, if it turns out his daughter is no longer a maid.”

“You will do no such thing. Lady Brienne and her father are good people,” Jaime suddenly feels exhausted. He has watched enough of his father’s machinations to know no matter how much he objects, if his father has a mind to, they will be carried out. “You will not trick their house into a marriage which will only benefit you.”

“If these rumors worsen, she may not have a choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm going to take a break from posting for a couple of weeks due to the holidays. The final two chapters are written, though, and I promise the story will be finished!


	10. Casterly Rock - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne misses the warmth of his body as she turns to watch him rifle through a large wardrobe in the corner of the room. It, too, speaks of wealth, the wood glossed to a bright sheen. Jaime may reject his father’s wishes to behave properly as heir, but he moves about so easily, accustomed to a life in which he does not have to worry about much. She and her father are in a better position than many on Tarth, but seeing the contrast between how her father lives and how Jaime’s family does is dizzying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW just in case you didn't heed the story rating. Thanks to my beta, lewispanda. And special thanks to Cerulean_Phoenix7 for giving me an extra set of eyes for the...well, you know.

Ever since Brienne picked up a sword, she’d begun to teach herself strength. Even before then, Galladon taught her to explore as if nothing could hold her back. They dove from high cliffs, flinging themselves into the sea. They squeezed through tight crevices in the mountains, they climbed to the top of waterfalls. The first time the other boys made fun of her for how she looked, she found herself wanting to withdraw. She wanted to return to the comfort and safety she felt with her brother. But he was gone. Evenfall Hall felt empty and lonely without him. Brienne carried Galladon with her, as she did her mother, and the sisters she never got to know. She often heard her father’s voice, reminding her not to back down from a challenge.  _ You are stronger than they know. Do not let their words harden you against the world _ . 

Yet Tywin’s words struck fear deep in her heart. His cold gaze was enough to make her forget all her training, her composure. Her instinct was to run far, far away from Casterly Rock. To take her horse and ride back to Tarth, if she could. 

She’d been a fool to believe the safe, protective circle she kept with Jaime and his men might extend to society beyond it. It was why when she began the tourney circuit, she tried to keep her identity hidden. The companionship she felt among Jaime’s men she’d scarcely experienced since her brother died. She’d been starved. Yearning for respect and understanding. 

And Jaime. Their friendship had grown quickly, as if they’d known each other for years. She was surprised by his generosity, honored to earn his respect and admiration. But then it shifted, as quickly as the wind. The way Jaime made her feel overrode her own good sense. She had allowed herself to get carried away by his declaration, by the softness in his eyes, by his care and courtesy as they lay together. They had been too starry eyed to think beyond themselves, to realize how easily the safe cocoon they’d built could come crashing down. Now it looked as if they might be separated. Perhaps this was the gods’ way of punishing them.

Daven, Addam, and the other men wandered back to their rooms, but she stayed, waiting for Jaime. She had laid with a lion, she could not act a sheep. 

*

Jaime pushes the thick door closed behind him, a satisfying thud reverberating off the marble. He wants to scream, anger still pulsing through his veins, his father’s threats echoing in his mind. There has been a feeling of dread in his chest all night. He thought it was simply being around his father and remembering his cutting words, his false promises. But when he called Brienne scarcely more than a whore, when he threatened his own son with a betrothal, Jaime knew the feeling was not only discomfort upon seeing his father again. It was anger. Anger because he failed to defend Brienne. She would balk at the very idea. She was perfectly capable of protecting herself, at least physically, but he wants to shield her from the world which had hurt her so deeply, from others’ japes and cruel words. 

There is also guilt mixed with his anger. He blames himself, because he could have prevented most of it if he had been able to control himself, his own physical urges, his desire for her. He hates that he has dragged her into this, hates his father for speaking his own worst fears. 

Footfalls echo and he pauses, listening. Brienne emerges from the shadows. Her eyes are large and dark in the flickering torchlight and she has her arms wrapped around herself. She looks more out of place here than anywhere they’ve been together. As he draws closer, he notices her puffy eyes. She opens her mouth, but he shakes his head, grasping her wrist and gesturing at her to be quiet. Casterly Rock was full of eyes and ears, all of which reported to one man. 

“Not here. Come with me,” he whispers in her ear. There are plenty of places to hide in the Rock, but Jaime can only think of one which will keep his father out. Joanna’s solar. As easy as it would be to order servants to clear the space, Tywin did not touch it after her death. 

The room is filled with moonlight. It streams in from the large windows which look out over the craggy rocks of the shore. There is a large desk in the middle of the room, just as Jaime remembers. It is too dark to see now, but there is a beautiful illustrated map of Westeros inlaid on the desk’s wood. As a child, his father was often away, and Joanna used the map to show her children where Tywin might be. 

Jaime often found his mother at her desk or standing in front of the windows, looking out at the ocean. Sometimes she would curl up with him on the chaise by the windows and read to him, the stories about valiant knights and beautiful maidens of which he had grown so fond. 

Brienne moves towards the windows, passing a hand over the desk as she walks by. Seeing her painted in the moonlight, his breath hitches in his chest. He moves towards her but she keeps her face turned away from him, her jaw firm. “Brienne,” he murmurs, concentrating on putting all the anger out of his voice, softening it. He gently touches her cheek, and she allows him to cup her chin with his fingers and guide her eyes to meet his. He wants to see all of it. Needs to. Her red-rimmed blue eyes, her blotchy face. He wishes to comfort her, touch her, kiss away her tears, if she will let him. “My father has no right to speak to you that way.” 

She allows him to turn her chin, but does not let his hand linger on her face, taking a step back from him. “His words were true, Jaime. This is no place for me.”

He falters, unsure what to say to convince her to stay. All he knows is the two of them need more time. “I want you with us. Because  _ you _ belong there. You are doing well on the tourney circuit. You should be proud of that.” 

She shakes her head. “He did not mean fighting in tourneys. He meant staying with you,” she says sadly. “I am not a Lannister bannermen. It is not my place.”

“But it  _ is _ . I asked you to join us.” He cannot blame her for her reticence. As much as she might buck convention, Brienne had not spent most of her life learning swordwork in order to draw attention to herself. She does not wish to ruffle feathers, least of all his father’s. But she has a right to a place among his men as much as anyone. Even before his feelings for her changed things.

“So you will go against your father’s wishes? Let me stay?” Her eyes widen. 

“Yes. Please, Brienne.” He will beg her if it comes to it. Fall on his knees. “I will not hear of you departing us. His words mean nothing.”

“Your father is one of the most powerful men in Westeros. Surely they mean  _something_ .” Tears well in her eyes. “And if I do not heed them, I will be the laughingstock of the kingdom. No one will allow me to fight. If these rumors spread, they will prevent me from more than that.” 

Jaime wishes he could claim that idle gossip means little, but he understands why it worries her. Out of the two of them, the rumors will barely touch him, but they might have long standing consequences for Brienne. “Do you regret it?” 

“Traveling with you? Of course not.” Her eyelids flutter, looking out from under her eyelashes at him before shyly glancing away. 

He cannot bear her departing from their company and he hates his father for putting these thoughts in her head. He thinks of Highgarden...and gods, he will not let her go without a fight. “I do not wish to stay here any longer than I have to. We can leave tonight. I will gather the men, as long as you promise to come with us.” 

She shakes her head, stubborn as ever. “I cannot promise it.” 

“What can I say to alter your feelings and convince you to stay? Should I remain here at Casterly Rock and let you lead my men?” he teases. A small smile edges across her face. “I could build tourney fields, the finest practice yards, the largest armory, so you would return to compete here. Whatever you wish.” There is a seriousness in his tone, a promise he longs to make. 

“Jaime,” she murmurs, voice soft, but disbelieving. 

“I would, Brienne,” he breathes. “I enjoy your company very much. I intend to do anything to keep you near me.” 

She steps closer, her cheek against his, standing together as they did on the balcony at Highgarden. “Can I kiss you?” she whispers. Her breath tickles his ear, setting off a warm thrum of desire in the pit of his stomach. He wants to kiss her senseless, needs to see her mouth fall open as he pleasures her, but he draws himself back to the present, to her slow, gentle movements. Enjoys the heat building between them as Brienne traces the shadow of a beard on his cheeks with her fingertips. “You did not answer me.” He laughs softly and nods his consent. 

She presses a gentle kiss to the tip of his chin, another alongside his nose, making him chuckle. Her eyes fall to his mouth, before flicking her gaze up to his and his breath stutters in his throat. If she waits another second, he might beg her. Finally, she slides her lips over his, still moving as slowly and gently as before, but as soon as Jaime reacts, opening his mouth to hers, she deepens the kiss, pressing into him with a ferocity she usually reserves for the melee field. He responds in kind, a groan at the back of his throat at her hunger, his hands grasping at her. 

They are both frantic, laces come undone and tunics are shed. Her hands skim along the muscles of his back until he pulls her hips flush with his, eliciting a sharp sigh from Brienne. Teeth tug at her bottom lip, before his mouth is blazing a path along her freckles. He nips at the skin right below her earlobe and seeks the spot along her neck which makes Brienne tighten her arms around him, his name falling out of her mouth in a whispery moan. He ducks his head, worshipping along her collarbone, light kisses coupled with his hot breath making her skin prickle beneath him. His hands slide further down her bare skin, caressing her breasts, thumb brushing at her nipple, as his lips work their way back up her neck. Brienne writhes against him. “Jaime,” she sighs just before he captures her mouth with his own. 

He wraps a hand at the small of her waist, guiding her to walk backwards until she bumps up against the desk, a gasp escaping her. He reaches for the laces on her breeches, his lips on hers as he slowly loosens them, both letting out moans of pleasure as he touches her, finds her wet and wanting. “Gods,” he breathes, eyes fixed on her face as his fingers continue to stroke gently. 

Brienne wraps an arm around his shoulders to hold herself steady, but soon her soft moans grow louder and she is unable to keep her hips from grinding against his hand, wanting more. “Please,” she begs. He kisses her, unable to hide his smile. Brienne’s hand remains firm on his left shoulder as he stops his ministrations and starts to tug her breeches down. He regrets having to move away from her, but he kneels on the floor, working the fabric down her legs, touching her knee when he needs her to balance on one foot so he can slide them off her ankles and feet. 

She brushes his hair back from where it’s falling in his face and he kisses her stomach. His touch directs her to widen her stance, so he can slip between her legs, balancing on his knees as he places soft kisses along her thighs. Even the lightest pressure of his mouth makes her inch closer to him. “Ohhh,” she sighs. 

“You may want to lean against the desk or hold onto me,” he instructs, sinking further down onto his knees, firmly wrapping an arm around her muscled thigh. She trembles with anticipation as he presses his mouth between her legs. Brienne lets out a long moan above him and she threads a hand through his hair, her fingers already tugging a little as he lets his tongue tease her clit. As hurried as they were to undress each other, he wants to take his time with her, to stroke and taste. 

She has consumed him. He has found nearly every thought in his day turning towards her now. He does not know if she will indeed depart their company in the morning, but Jaime finds if he thinks about it too long, it’s as if his heart will split in two. So he concentrates on her pleasure, fingertips tracing a gentle path along the back of her thigh, holding her steady as he nudges further into her cunt, using his nose to create friction. She arches her back and leans away from him, but he grips her more firmly, relishing the tension of her muscled legs tightening around his head. “Oh yes, Jaime,” she pants. 

When he pulls his mouth away, she tugs at his hair, trying to direct him back towards her, but he resists her, instead sliding his fingers between her wet folds. She lets out a hiss at his touch. “ _ Yes. _ ” Legs shaking, her hands flail above him, not knowing whether it is better to grip the edge of the desk or him. His cock is throbbing, aching for her, but he wants her to come first. Jaime nips and bites at her thigh as he strokes her, increasing his rhythm when her hips buck against his hand. He rejoins his mouth to the effort, her noises above him only driving him onwards, drawing her closer and closer, until finally she cries out, her legs clamping around his head, and the waves of her orgasm crash against him.

His palm is on her ass, where he can feel the taut muscle from riding, but her legs are weak and wobbly, like a newborn foal, and she sinks down to the floor next to him. Her breathing is heavy, but a small smile crosses her face and she circles her arms around him, pulling him for a kiss. “Mmm,” he murmurs against her lips. 

They are gentle with each other, Brienne tracing mindless circles across his skin, her hand brushing through the blond hair on his chest as he presses his nose into her neck. “Your knees must be hurting,” she whispers. 

“It was worth it.” He cannot help but grin at her cheekily. She laughs and he is grateful to hear it. 

She is not as experienced as he, but Brienne wants to make him feel the same way she does when he pleasures her. 

“Stand,” she demands of him, voice raspy. 

Jaime’s eyes blink rapidly. “What?” he asks, his voice choked.

“Stand up.” Brienne repeats, her tone firm. He scrambles to his feet. He is still wearing his breeches, but the outline of his cock is visible through the fabric. She licks her lips and rises. Standing in front of him, she trails a hand along his stomach, Jaime’s breath hitches at her touch. “You’ll need to take these off.” 

Again, Jaime jumps to follow her orders, but his hands are shaking so much, she finally covers them with her own. She unties them easily and shoves the fabric down his hips, making him gasp. For a moment, she hesitates, unsure what to do now. But Jaime does. He reaches down to stroke himself and her mouth goes dry, her body flooding with the realization that  _ she _ does this to him. The shame and embarrassment she has always felt about her body, the idea that she will never be desirable, starts to melt away. 

“Kiss me,” he hisses and she obeys, opening her mouth to allow the warmth of his tongue. Again, her hand covers his, and he thrusts into her hand. “Fuck,” he murmurs into her neck. 

She maneuvers them so they are leaning against the desk again, her ass barely on the edge because she has allowed herself to be distracted by his mouth at her neck, and then he is pressing against her, both of them groaning at the sensation. “Wait, wait,” she says breathily, even though she does not want to wait. She wants to feel him inside of her, wants his bare chest against hers, his breath in her ear. She shifts until she feels sturdier and he moves with her, his hand grazing her leg as he draws it around him. 

“Are you settled?” he asks, a smirk on his face. She nods, cupping her hand at the back of his neck as he enters. With each thrust, the desk creaks a little louder, but their cries of pleasure cover the sound. It is easier to find their rhythm this time, but even so, Brienne senses Jaime is holding back. 

Her lips nip along his jawline and she whispers the words against his ear. “Please. I want to feel all of you.” Her hands grip his ass, pulling him deeper. 

His breath hitches, but he listens to her, a hand bracing her hip against the desk as he increases his rhythm. His other hand fists in her hair, cradling the back of her head, so it won’t knock against the desk. “Gods,” he groans. “Brienne, fuck-” But then he is spilling inside of her, his hips quaking against hers as he comes. 

“It’s alright,” she soothes him, her hands threading through his hair as he rests his forehead against hers. 

He mumbles something against her mouth as he kisses her lazily. “I’m sorry,” he says, clearer this time.

Guilt bubbles up in her stomach. Brienne should feel more shame for what they have done, how they have laid together, especially in light of Tywin’s insinuations at dinner, but Jaime’s touch, the heat of his body against hers is enough to make her forget everything else for a moment. 

“I should go to my room,” she murmurs into his skin. 

Jaime traces a hand down her back, fingertips gentle on her spine. “Come to mine. Just for a little while.” 

“What if someone should see us or find us or…”

“Or hear us?” he chuckles into her ear. Jaime pulls back and traces his fingers along her cheek. “My father’s chambers are far from my own. We will be safe.” 

“You did not have to say all those things at dinner. You did not have to defend me.” 

“Were any of them false? I meant every word, Brienne.” She does not know what to say. The depth of his feelings seem to grow faster than she believed possible. He has been quick to know and name them and she is scrambling to keep up with him. She hesitates while he runs straight ahead into the unknown, unafraid. yet she cannot fully let herself trust them. It makes her feel ill suited. Perhaps there is someone who would better match Jaime’s lack of fear, who would believe him unfailingly. 

And yet she lets him take her hand and lead her out of the solar, through the maze of halls, stairways, and passages to his chambers. The Rock is dizzying in its magnitude and if she were a welcomed guest, she could easily spend hours wandering its rooms. Torn between the happiness she feels in Jaime’s arms and the harsh truths his father spoke during their meal, Brienne wants to ignore her good sense, wishes her heart would allow her to  _ be _ with Jaime, but the consequences are too great to ignore. 

As she told him, she would not be allowed to fight, would not be able to earn coin for her father. If rumors spread that the Maid of Tarth lay with the Lion of Lannister, both she and her father would be ruined. The Baratheons might lay claim to Tarth, might strip her father of his title and their family home. Brienne cannot choose a path which would put her family in danger. 

After Galladon’s death, she and her father had only each other. Despite their disagreements over the betrothals he tried to make for her, she knows he had her best interests at heart, even if he sought them in ways different than her own. He simply wanted her to be safe, to be well taken care of, to have shelter and food. She may not be loved in marriage, but she would be valued. Her father let her train with Renly because he knew it would make her happy and fulfilled. In turn, she felt it only fair to use those skills her father allowed her to learn in order to support him. For her to choose Jaime over Tarth would break her father’s heart. 

But choosing Tarth over Jaime was breaking her heart. 

Jaime draws her close, his lips a gentle whisper, a breeze barely grazing her cheek before kissing her fully, pressing her up against the wall. He opens a door next to where they are stopped, one which she had not even noticed a moment ago, because she was so wrapped up in his touch. “My lady,” he murmurs, gesturing for her to enter first. 

Stepping inside, Brienne’s breath hitches; the room is outfitted for a king. There is a large bed made out of wood as golden as Jaime’s lance with beautiful carved posts which stretch up to the ceiling, outfitted with a crimson canopy on top. The Lannister sigil graces the headboard, an elaborate tapestry hung above it. 

There is a large desk in front of the windows and she can hear the sound of the ocean waves crashing outside, reminding her of Tarth. On either side of the desk are shelves built into the wall and she pauses to let her eyes catalogue their contents. There are a pair of small, carved wooden lions painted in gold, a small shield and a training sword which are gathering dust, a few books, and a small beaded bracelet which looks like it might have been strung together by a child. Jaime’s arms wrap around her middle and she leans in to his touch, resting her back against his chest. “Come to bed,” he says gently. “If you wish to change, I have clothes here which you could borrow.” 

She shakes her head against him. “I doubt I would fit in your things.”

“You might.” He drops a kiss to her neck before stepping away from her. Brienne misses the warmth of his body as she turns to watch him rifle through a large wardrobe in the corner of the room. It, too, speaks of wealth, the wood glossed to a bright sheen. Jaime may reject his father’s wishes to behave properly as heir, but he moves about so easily, accustomed to a life in which he does not have to worry about much. She and her father are in a better position than many on Tarth, but seeing the contrast between how her father lives and how Jaime’s family does is dizzying. 

He passes her a tunic which may be large enough. She wants to ask why he would choose to be with someone like her when he could have any woman he wanted. Someone small and petite and beautiful like Margaery. But Brienne knows he would only smile his unknowable smile and say something which would make her blush and roll her eyes. So instead she leans forward to steal a kiss from him, his scruff against her cheek sparking a now familiar sensation between her legs. “Go,” he demands her, a laugh in his throat. “Otherwise I will not be responsible for my actions.” 

Brienne ducks her head and steps towards the screen--again decorated with Lannister colors--which divides a small portion of the room off for privacy. She removes her jerkin, her breeches, thinking of how Jaime’s hands fumbled with the laces earlier. There’s an ache in her heart, knowing she must leave in the morning. 

After she dons his tunic, she steps around the screen, taking in the sight of Jaime sitting up in his stately bed, waiting for her as if it was the first time, both of them nervous and excited. He has propped a window open and she can hear the crash of the waves, smell the salt. “I like being able to hear the sea,” she says in an effort to calm herself. “It reminds me of home.” From the look on his face, Jaime has not heard a word she said. His tunic hits her mid-thigh and is a bit tight across the shoulders, but will be suitable for sleeping. She nearly laughs at his awestruck look but instead simply smiles to herself. Brienne slips into bed with him, Jaime immediately pulling her closer, his hand grazing her thigh, his fingertips dancing across her bare skin. “You should go around wearing only my tunics from now on.” He presses a kiss to the sliver of skin where she left the shirt untied. 

“I knew you were not listening. And I cannot do that,” she blushes. “Not when anyone could walk into the tent and see.” 

He kisses her. Brienne makes a soft sound at the back of her throat and it is all she can do to resist pulling him on top of her. Jaime mumbles against her lips, “You said you liked hearing the ocean because it reminds you of Tarth.” He gives her a cheeky grin as he pulls away, settling next to her. “What’s it like there?” 

She never realizes how much she misses it until someone asks, then an ache rises up in her and lasts so long it feels as if it will never fade. “It’s beautiful. It’s called the Sapphire Isle for the colors of its water.” 

“It must match your eyes then.” She glances up to see that smile of his, the one she is beginning to feel is hers, and her cheeks flush at the look on his face.

“ _ Jaime _ .”

He laughs, his fingertips dancing across her shoulder. “Alright, go on.” Brienne tells him of the small island’s diverse geography. There are rocky beaches, meadows, woods leading to the mountains, with its pristine lakes and waterfalls. As a child it was her goal to find all the secret waterfalls tucked across the island, but the words stop in her throat and then she is telling him about Galladon. 

Tears slipping down her cheeks, the softness in Jaime’s eyes, the way he wipes away her tears with the pad of his thumb, the way he strokes her hair and whispers, “I’m sorry, Brienne” in her ear. It is easy and caring and tender, which simply makes her cry harder and he wraps her in his arms, soothing her. 

Her tears become less about her brother and more about losing Jaime. They have started something which they cannot see through and it strikes her as deep as any loss. Galladon, her mother, her sisters she barely knew. 

She cannot lose Jaime, too. 

As if he senses her thoughts, Jaime nudges his forehead against hers and whispers, “I do not wish you to go.” 

She tries to calm her breathing enough so she can speak, sure her face is blotchy and red, unappealing as she sniffles against him. “I wish I could stay.”

“Then stay.” He draws his thumb across her lips. “Stay.” Jaime repeats as his lips brush against hers. 

She reaches up, cupping his face, her fingers lingering along his jaw, its stubble, before she slides her hands up into his hair. He closes his eyes, murmuring as her fingertips brush through his golden strands, drawing it back from his face as she presses her lips to his. Slow, lazy kisses as she continues to thread her hands through his hair, Jaime humming at her touch. 

“I will not be able to sleep with you gone, my lady.” It is all she hoped for once, someone to wish for her to stay, to welcome and accept her love. Despite her feelings for him, which seem to blossom and grow without end, there is still the question echoing in her mind of why he would want her. Perhaps that is what love is, she thinks, to push through those questions, to disregard reason. “I may forget to eat and eventually I will fall off my horse starved with hunger.” 

“I do not wish you to injure yourself on my behalf, Ser Jaime.” His eyes sparkle in the candlelight at the formal title. “You must eat to keep up your strength so you can continue to win tourneys.” They are reverent in their movements, every touch lighting a spark until there are too many to ignore. Brienne tugs at Jaime’s tunic, lifting it over his head. She places a hand on his chest and can feel his heart pounding. Her eyes flick up to his and he smiles.

“And so I may be able to ravish you.” She kisses him a little too harshly then, teeth colliding, and both of them laugh, followed by Jaime cupping her cheek and softly, sweetly returning the kiss. Her hands continue their exploration of his chest, the muscles lean, his skin golden and sensitive to her touch. His hand grasps her hips and he flips them, their legs tangled together, so he is the one with his back on the mattress and she is astride him. Brienne hesitates, wanting to move away, afraid she is too large, too heavy. He reaches up, his hand soft, tilting her chin, so her eyes meet his. “I want to see you.”

She nods, still wary, but Jaime scoots back against the pillows, rearranging her slightly so both of them are more comfortable. He is still wearing his braies but she can feel the hard length of him pressed against her thigh and her breath catches. Jaime reaches for her tunic, lifting it over her head, Brienne helping him untangle her arms from the sleeves. He presses a hand to her lower back, fingers along her spine, and she leans towards him so he can kiss her, softly at first, then a headier one, as if he were drinking her down in one gulp, ignoring the need for air. They pause, heavy breaths echoing against each other, a gasp in her throat as Jaime’s hand palms her breast. She presses into him, hungry for his touch, her mouth on his again, tongue dancing along his lips. 

Brienne slips, her hips moving against his and Jaime lets out a soft moan. A blush creeps across her cheeks and he brushes the hair back from her face, nipping at her nose. They return to their slow kisses, his fingers tracing the delicate skin of her nipples, before he lowers his head, his tongue laving at her breast. Her fingers slide into his hair, sighing sweetly as he continues his attentions, to kiss and bite softly. 

Even as his mouth and tongue focus on her breasts, he slips his fingers between her thighs. She cries out, writhing against his touch. “Oh,” she murmurs into his hair, already feeling as if she will fall apart. She can feel Jaime watching her, but she shuts her eyes, concentrating on the sensations from his fingers. The pleasure mounts and fades again, Brienne biting her lip, trying to reach for it. 

“Breathe,” Jaime whispers, his breath hot against her ear. “Relax. There’s no rush.” She opens her eyes then, the deep affection in his gaze overwhelms her, blossoming in her heart. 

“I-” But she cannot finish her sentence because her thighs are shuddering around his hand and she is crying out. She catches a brief glimpse of his smile as she tilts forward, her arm wrapping around his back as the waves of gratification stretch further apart, her body and breath slowing. 

Jaime lets her catch her breath and then when she has recovered, he rearranges them for a moment, so he can slip off his remaining garment and then his hands are at her hips again, trying to pull her back to him. “I don’t…” she trails off, uncertain of what to do. 

“It’s like mounting a horse,” he tells her, unable to suppress his laugh, but her mouth falls open in shock. 

“Jaime!” But still laughing, she throws her leg over his and he helps guide her down onto his cock. She grips his shoulder as he fills her, surprised at how different it feels. 

“You’re alright?” Brienne nods, but her face must betray the nervousness she feels because Jaime takes one of her hands in his own, threading his fingers through hers. “I’ll guide you.” 

And he does. Sometimes he does so by whispered words, other times a gentle touch of his hand until she begins to move against him instinctively, begins to understand she will not break him. She quite enjoys seeing the pleasure which spreads across Jaime’s face as she rolls and presses her hips against his. “Gods,” he murmurs, his voice rough, and beckons her to lean towards him so he can kiss her. 

They move together languidly, neither of them in a rush, his gaze not so much as glancing away from hers, even when his fingers trail across her skin to lavish attention elsewhere. He clutches her close sometimes, whispering in her ear. She revels in the little sensations she had not taken the time to note before: the press of her chest against his, the pleasant friction of their skin, the stirring in her stomach. 

When Jaime begins to take sharp inhales of breath, biting his lip whenever Brienne moves against him, she slows, afraid she’s hurting him. “No, no, keep going.” He begins to arch his hips up into hers, one hand firm at her waist, the other slipping between her legs, his fingers stroking her. When he touches her, she is quite incapable of thought and she can sense her movements slowing, so Brienne presses her hips swiftly into his, causing him to cry out in surprise. 

“Let me,” she tells him firmly. The wild, untamed look in his eye causes heat to rise in her face. She grips his shoulders as she grinds against him, bolder now. 

“Please, stay, Brienne,” he begs before his hips buck against her and he clutches her close as he comes.

*

There is an ocean, but it is not the one he grew up swimming in as a boy. The water shifts from green to a blue the same color of Brienne’s eyes. She is with him on the ship, her cheeks flushed from the wind. He puts his arms around her and calls her his lady wife. 

The castle is stone, old and crumbling, but he promises to fix it, to restore her ancestral home. She kisses him and then they are standing in a courtyard, watching as two young boys fight, turning to ask her if she will do the favor of sparring with him again. 

Brienne stands in front of a bay of wide windows, one which looks almost identical to his mother’s solar. She would make a remarkable Lady Lannister, he thinks. Brienne notices him watching her, places a hand over her stomach, and opens her mouth to speak. Jaime wakes, sweaty and twisted in the sheets. It is only as he is unraveling the blankets from his legs does he realize the space beside him in bed is empty. 

Brienne is gone. 


	11. The Trident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s alright,” he tells her, even though it is the furthest thing from all right. “You’re shivering. We have to get you warm.” He guides her to his bed and helps her in. She crosses her arms over her chest, continuing to shake. “Hold on a moment.” Jaime fetches his crimson and black cloak from his chest and wraps it around her, before pulling the furs up to her chin. “Is that better?” She nods, smiling weakly at him. He reaches up to smooth the hair back from her face, her eyelids fluttering closed at his touch. Repeating the motion, he runs his fingers through her hair until Brienne’s breathing grows steady and deep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta, lewispanda, and thanks to Cerulean_Phoenix7 for an extra pair of eyes.

No one looks at her as she rides out of the gates of Casterly Rock, happy to leave its imposing grandeur behind. Though Jaime moved through its halls with a natural ease, it is clear to Brienne he did not belong there. Tywin’s words continue to echo in her mind, and again she marvels at the vastly different temperaments a father and son could have. He had tried to tell her about his father, but she could not understand why the Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand of the King might take any interest in her. She had been naive, of course Tywin would be curious about the company his son kept. Despite Jaime’s warnings at Highgarden, he did not hesitate to defend her. 

She has forgotten how quiet it is to travel alone, left only with her thoughts and the sounds of nature around her. Heading north on the River Road and riding through the hills of the Westerlands, she feels wary and unwelcome. 

She intended to wake him when she left, but Jaime looked so peaceful sleeping, so instead she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead and snuck out of his chambers. Perhaps it was cowardly to not allow him to see her, but it would have made her departure more difficult, and she wanted to spare them both the pain. It’s not as if they will never see each other again. Jaime will be at the Trident, same as her. It is the last tournament of the season. Several houses--the Tullys, Arryns, Freys--come together to host it, making the competition is larger than usual, as the bannermen of all those houses as well as knights from other houses travel across the Realm to participate.

It is several days ride from Casterly Rock, and the journey feels much longer now that she has no companions. She misses the comfort of the Lannister camp, the familiarity and camaraderie she felt, not to mention the way her heart aches for Jaime, the stories he would regale them with as they rode, how he always asked to spar with her. Brienne even misses his japes and teasing, his bravado which lessened when he was with her, but never entirely went away. It is a part of him, a part that she loves. 

It is strange, setting up her camp alone after all this time, and she chides herself for having become so dependent on their company. Yet when she stops in the evenings, she half listens for the sound of horse hooves, hoping somehow Jaime has come after her. 

*

As they leave the Rock, none of the men ask after Brienne, and Jaime assumes they think she departed after Tywin’s harsh words. She would not be the first to be scared away, certainly, but she is made of stronger stuff than that. They both are. 

When they are well away, Addam rides up beside him. “You look as if you’ve barely slept.” Jaime considers telling his friend precisely how he spent his evening, but it is too precious, too private. “We can stop early tonight.” 

“No,” he replies, resigned. “I’ll be alright.” 

Barely half a day’s ride has passed when he realizes his company is poorer in her absence. At first, Brienne had hung back from the rest of the group, but as she began to feel more comfortable around them, she inserted herself so fully that now it was strange to look around and not see her laughing with Addam, or teasing Daven about his latest conquest, or listening with rapt attention to one of Tybolt’s meandering stories. He is eager to press on, hoping they may cross paths with Brienne.

He blames himself for her departure. He allowed his father to speak to her as if she was little more than dirt and afterwards he had done nothing but make vague promises to her, believing their connection was enough. But Brienne’s home is under financial strain; she needs more than romantic words. Jaime knows she would likely reject his assistance, but the one thing which could help her the most, he has not offered. He wonders if Brienne would allow him to visit Tarth and assess the misfortune that had befallen the island’s coffers. Afterwards he could visit King’s Landing, try his hand at diplomacy, see if the Crown might be willing to help.

He should have spent the previous evening appealing directly to his father, but Tywin’s proffered solution would have been a wedding. Jaime can scarcely imagine Brienne’s embarrassment. She would likely imagine he was marrying her only to provide her with coin, not because he loved her. He would never do that to Brienne. 

No, if he were to wed, it would be on his own terms, not his father’s. Perhaps in time, he might ask and she might say yes. Or perhaps she might ask and he would gladly accept. He only knows he cannot carry on parted from her.

*

Brienne mounts her tent from plain white sail at the Trident. Normally, she would break bread with others she meets in the camp, but not tonight. She keeps to herself, stokes her fire, half expecting to glance up and see Jaime striding into her camp, a smile on his face, some excuse to come see her on his lips. 

_ This is stupid. I should not be thinking of him so often when I do not even know if he is thinking of me. _ She pulls out Oathkeeper, which she has not used since Ashford. From her saddlebags, she pulls out a whetstone and a cloth and sets to polishing the sword. Admiring the ripples of color in the firelight, she chides herself for being inexplicably drawn to an object Jaime gave her, even as she swore not to think of him. 

As the fire dies down to embers, her heart begins to sink. Perhaps he misunderstood her leaving and is angry with her, or despite his protests, he was forced to stay at the Rock for another day. Maybe he simply has not been able to find her among the many tents. She will go look for him in the morning. His camp is easier to spot among the crowds. 

Brienne changes in the darkness of her tent, leaving her heavy leather jerkin on for extra protection. As she settles on her bedroll, the sound of strange voices laughing and speaking outside makes her fingers curl around the hilt of Oathkeeper. 

There is a chill in the air when she wakes the next morning, hand still on the hilt of the sword, an echo of Jaime beside her. The muscles in her lower back and legs are stiff in the cold, exacerbated from days of riding. She reaches for her thicker, slightly padded tunic to help ward off the cooler temperatures. 

Pushing back the flap of her tent, she freezes. Jaime is crouched by the ashes of her fire, trying to get it started again. He must sense her presence because he looks up and his face breaks into a broad grin. “Jaime!” her voice is rough with sleep but saying his name sends a rush through her. He steps towards her, embracing her in a hug, and Brienne allows herself to sink into his scent, his touch for a moment before the two of them part. 

“I apologize for not coming sooner. We arrived very late last night.” There is concern on his face. “Are you alright? You made it here safely?” 

“I’m fine. I am capable of traveling alone.” Brienne feels her defenses rise. His worry for her is sweet, but she need not rely on Jaime and his men. She made her way before them, she is able to do so now. 

“I know you do not need our protection, but we miss your companionship.” His fingers are gentle on her arm. 

“You mean,  _ you _ do.” 

“Of course I do, but no, that is not what I meant. The men miss you as well. Our caravan was quite sullen on the way here. You are a part of our group now. We need you with us.” 

“It’s not that I do not wish to,” she sighs, feeling as if they’ve already had this conversation many times over. “If I believed I had a choice, I would, but I have to do what is safer for me and better for Tarth. Renly could easily revoke his consent and I would no longer be allowed to compete or earn coin. You know how vital that is for me.” Her tone has turned harried and angry, but she softens when Jaime’s gentle gaze meets hers and he soothes her with his words.

“You are doing the right thing. It’s very admirable.” He glances around and satisfied that no one can see, draws her close and kisses her tenderly. “I do wish there was more I could do to assist you. I feel responsible for these rumors, which is why I think it might be wise to stay under our protection.” 

Her hands fidget nervously. “That’s a lovely promise, but an impossible one to keep, I’m afraid.” 

“You’re quite stubborn. I did always like that about you,” he replies, giving her one of his most flirtatious smiles. Brienne rolls her eyes, shoving him in the chest, but this only furthers the heat in his gaze. “A rough wooing.” He catches her hand in his, dragging hers up to his mouth, where he kisses the inside of her wrist. “I must confess that coming from you, my lady, I do not mind it.” Jaime looks so smug, and one half of her wants to snatch her hand away from him, the other half wants to drag him inside the tent.

“Do you think this is a jape?” Her voice breaks with irritation. Despite Jaime’s insistence that he understands her reasoning, she cannot tell his true feelings about the matter, him preferring to tease and flirt with her. “I suppose you do not know what it is like to have someone say no to you.” 

She slides out of his grasp, starting to turn towards the tent. “Brienne.” Jaime reaches for her hand, catching it and when she looks up at him, his eyes are apologetic. “I’m sorry. I do know how important your home is to you, how important it is for you to earn coin here. I will not stand in the way of that, and I should not have made light of it.” 

“You’re not angry with me?” 

“I hoped you would be there when I woke.” His words are careful and there is a strain in his eyes. He _was_ hurt by her departure. “I missed you,” he murmurs earnestly. 

It is such a simple confession but such a genuine one, it nearly makes Brienne’s eyes well up with tears. “I missed you, too.” 

Jaime’s fingers are snug around her wrist, his other hand at her cheek.“At least come break bread with us. The other men will be glad to see you and you do not have to stay long if you do not wish.” 

She knows him well enough to see that this is the start, how he gets her to stay, but Brienne  _ has _ missed the others’ company. Perhaps it will do her good to see them. It will allow her to spend time with Jaime as well, something that despite her objections, she has been aching for since she left Casterly Rock. “To that I  _ will _ agree.”

*

Jaime keeps trying to take her hand as they walk, only to have her shove him away, a little harder each time, his laugh cracking out of his body, fast and light as a whip. They are not being careful, not in the slightest, but Brienne is tired from days of riding and does not care as much as she should. 

When they reach the Lannister camp, there is already a roaring fire going, the men making various exclamations of delight upon seeing her. “Lady Brienne!” When Addam curtsies in front of her, all of them, Brienne included, laugh. She tucks herself between Jaime and Steffon, watching as Daven carefully turns the bacon. Whether it is the fire or the fondness for these men which warms her body, she is unsure, but is grateful for both.

They are finishing up breakfast, when a young man wearing the Tully sigil hurries over. “Are you Lady Brienne?” 

“Yes,” she answers hesitantly. 

The man hands her a slip of paper. “A raven came for you this morning.” Then he disappears between the tents again.

Brienne frowns, unrolling the parchment. She stares at it for so long, the ink begins to blur, her hands shaking as she allows the paper to reform its tightly wrapped curl and crushes it in her fist. Realizing the men are watching her expectantly, she only shakes her head, unable to speak. “Is everything alright? Is it your father?” The concern in Jaime’s voice is palpable, but she doesn’t know what to do, what to say. Her heart hammers in her chest, her hands and feet feel weak, like the night she drank too much wine and kissed Jaime. 

He discreetly signals the other men to leave them and they make their excuses to visit the smiths, check on the horses, or visit the tiltyard before the joust is set to begin. “Brienne,” he says softly, his hand landing gently at her wrist. “What is it?”

“No…” she sucks in a deep breath, chin trembling. “He said he wouldn’t.” Brienne passes the parchment to him with shaking hands, but she drops her head, unable to look at him while he reads it, knowing there will only be pain, hurt, betrayal when he meets her gaze again. The man who cares for her, but who will never be hers.

_ I’ve made a betrothal for you. Ser Ronnet Connington. _

Jaime cannot even comprehend the words scrawled on the slip of paper held between his fingers. There is a rage which boils up in his stomach and claws at his throat--not at her, never at her--but at her father, at his father, at the men like them, their society as a whole, who dictate their children’s lives. 

She is risking her life on the melee field to earn money for her father. There are tales of lords and ladies whose bloodlines died out, whose families were killed, their castles lost to the ravages of time. Brienne is trying to stop a similar fate from befalling Tarth and her father disregarded it, choosing to send her into a wolf’s den instead. 

“Jaime, I-” she tries to speak, her voice coarse, brittle. 

“It’s not your fault.” 

She is shaking, even though she’s wearing her thick coat. A stunned stare is all he receives in reply. He has seen enough men suffer the same fate on the battlefield or in the practice yard to recognize it. Hers has not come from a physical blow but somehow that only makes it worse. 

If it were a gash that needed healing, Jaime would know how to help her. He could call for a maester, bandage her injury, try to soothe her with his touch, and feed her to keep up her strength. 

Emotional wounds are harder. They scrape and bruise, before hardening into tough scar tissue. Even so, he does what he can. Jaime helps her slowly to her feet, wrapping an arm around her waist to guide her into the tent. “You need to rest. I will not have you returning to your camp.” He wants to retrieve more clothes for her, but Brienne is too unsteady on her feet for him to leave her side. “I’ll go and fetch your things later, but you have to stay here. You cannot be on your own right now.” Not fighting him for once, she nods and slides a still shaky arm around his middle, pulling him in for a gentle, trembling hug. Jaime’s body is tense as it’s ever been, but he relaxes into her touch. He does not know how to assuage them, not when it comes to the situation they’ve found themselves in. 

“How will we-” her voice is choked and there are tears on the shoulder of his tunic and gods, he does not know what to say to make her feel better. He has never seen her this torn apart. Not when she told him about the bet, not when his father said awful things to her. She is the strongest person he knows. Jaime realizes he’s been waiting for her to blink, push him away, and say she’s fine, only to leave him marveling in her wake. 

“It’s alright,” he tells her, even though it is the furthest thing from all right. “You’re shivering. We have to get you warm.” He guides her to his bed and helps her in. She crosses her arms over her chest, continuing to shake. “Hold on a moment.” Jaime fetches his crimson and black cloak from his chest and wraps it around her, before pulling the furs up to her chin. “Is that better?” She nods, smiling weakly at him. He reaches up to smooth the hair back from her face, her eyelids fluttering closed at his touch. Repeating the motion, he runs his fingers through her hair until Brienne’s breathing grows steady and deep. 

*

She wakes, unsure how long she has slept. There is weak, gray light filtering through the tent. The crimson silk reminds her of the canopy on Jaime’s bed at the Rock and she thinks of the gentle way he held her as she moved above him. 

_ The raven _ , she remembers. Dread coils in her chest, settling deep like the icy frost of winter, so cold that it sinks into her bones and makes her wonder if she’ll ever be warm again. 

It is not the first betrothal her father has made for her. But she was young then, too young to understand what a marriage entailed. What would be expected of her as a wife. As she grew older and became the focus of many boys teasing, she began to realize that no one would ever see her as a beauty. No one would want her. 

Renly’s visit gave her a tiny bit of hope. He treated her as if her looks did not matter. It is why she held onto her feelings for him for so long. After that, she began to wish for someone who would look upon her as an equal, who would see her as someone who was not to be pitied. She simply wanted to be treated fairly, courteously, kindly. 

Jaime looked at her as something of wonder. With awe, with respect she had not seen in anyone’s eyes except his own. Precious and sacred under his gaze, an unpolished gem in the midst of a quarry, hiding in plain sight for someone to notice.

It fills her with pride that Jaime views her this way and yet it is a feeling with which she is not entirely comfortable. Maybe he is too eager for her to love him, and one day he will come to his senses and realize he could have anyone he wants and he need not choose her. 

Brienne wonders then if it is better to enter into a marriage which is a true alliance of houses, rather than one based on love. Without those feelings involved, a more equal unification can occur, so they may decide what is best for their household together. Loyalty and trust may blossom over time, slowly growing into love. Not the same kind of love which is based on physical desire or deep emotions, but which comes from a long-seeded respect.

She has allowed herself the experience of love, an all consuming, tempestuous love with Jaime. But now she must do what is best for her family, her future. 

*

Considering the morning’s events, Jaime was hesitant to compete in the joust at all. Addam promised to keep an eye on Brienne, however, so he found his way to the tiltyard. Perhaps if he at least went through the motions, the routine might calm him and give him a sense of normalcy which would guide him through the day. Instead his jaw clenches as he watches the competitors fill the field, realizing too late he is searching for one sigil in particular. As it comes into view, the double griffins on red and white, he feels the impulse to gather up his reins and urge his horse faster, faster, driving straight into him. Jaime’s fists tighten, and his breath stutters in his chest as if he already has plowed into Ronnet Connington. 

He watches Connington during his breaks, jaw clenched. The man wins his first bout but then is unseated by a Tully bannerman and storms angrily off the field. For a moment, Jaime nearly follows him, imagines pulling the man around by his sleeve, demanding to know his intentions. 

It is lucky he does not suffer a grave injury during the day’s courses as his mind is not on the horse under him, the lance in his hand, or the opponent racing at him. Instead it is occupied by blue eyes brimming with unspoken questions. Jaime’s thoughts are broken by cheers and shouts from the crowd. A dawning realization they are cheering for him. His opponent dismounted. He has won the final bout. 

Despite his success in the joust, Jaime is irritable and angry as he walks back to the tent, but upon finding Brienne and Addam sitting by the fire, finishing up a meal, his demeanor softens. He is pleased to see Brienne back on her feet after the morning’s emotional turmoil. Addam claps him on the back, saying they will have to celebrate his victory later, but then leaves them on their own.

Jaime changes out of his armor before returning to her. She smiles at him, but her gaze is distant, as if she has not fully returned to herself after receiving the raven. He watches the flickering, dancing flames, wondering if there is anything to be done or if it is all too late. 

“I am to meet him,” her voice barely a whisper, a breath on the wind. 

“When?” 

Brienne crosses her arms over her chest, as if she’s caught a chill, despite the flames leaping mere feet from her boots. It makes her look small. Not at all the woman he first met on the melee field, who overpowered him with her size, strength, and skill. “Tomorrow.” 

“He is here, you know. I saw his banners.” 

Brienne’s eyes widen. “Did you speak to him?” 

_ Best I did not have to face him, my lady _ . That morning, he spent far too much time focusing on the young man across the field, studying his every move, imagining riding against him, and Jaime’s lance breaking, using it to impale Connington, stem to stern. “Would you have wished me to?” 

“No, of course not,” she replies quickly, shaking her head. 

The crackling of the fire fills the silence between them. His voice is low and quiet when he finally speaks, “You’ve made a decision then.”

“As if I have a choice,” she scoffs. 

“You  _ do _ have a choice.” There is a rough edge in his voice, one which he hopes she hears. 

“Not all of us can turn down however many offers we like.” The cynicism in her tone is an unsettling sound. “I may have had a choice, once, when Tarth was not on the verge of falling at my father’s feet, but no longer.” She is trying to protect herself, trying to protect  _ him _ . Jaime’s instinct is to fight and claw his way back to her. If he can, if he’s not too late.

“Hold him off tomorrow. In the meantime, I will write to your father.”

A bitter laugh escapes her lips. “You’ll write to my father and tell him what? That you have bedded me? And now you plan to take me on as your what? Your  _ squire _ ? So I may have a small income? What good will that do either of us?” Her words are as sharp as her sword and cut as deeply.  _ She does not mean it _ . 

“A squire?” Jaime balks, wondering what’s made her think such a thing. “No, I will write to him to ask for your hand.” 

Finally her reasoned mask slips away for a mere moment. “Jaime.” Her voice is choked and it’s clear she is hurting as much as he is. Her eyes wide like a nervous horse. He has to tame his own emotions or she will spook easily, might rear up or bolt away from him. “No,” she shakes her head sadly. “Your father would never approve.” 

“Then we will run away together. To Tarth. To Essos.” It is out of his mouth before he even realizes it, but he means it. It’s an offer he would keep, if she accepted. 

The glimpse of Brienne, the one who allows herself to be vulnerable with him, has passed. Her walls risen again. There is steeliness in her voice as she tells him, “I do not need you to save me, Ser Jaime.” She blocks his efforts at every turn. Immovable. “I am quite capable of saving myself. I was doing it long before I met you.” 

“I know that, of course I do. But this is not that.” He continues to push, to wheedle, to look for a chink in her armor. Unwilling to give up just yet. 

“No?” she barks, anger coloring her voice. “What is it then?”

“It’s not a rescue. At least not only that. It’s because…” The words tangle in his throat and he swallows them back as her blue eyes burn into him, as unpredictable as any storm, a glimpse of the sharp shock of hurt crossing her features. Her mouth falling slack and stunned as the realization dawns, but her jaw firms as she turns away from him. “You cannot marry him,” he whispers into the darkness, only half intending her to hear it.  _ Marry me instead. _

Her head snaps towards him. The firelight illuminates part of Brienne’s face and it is a mixture of indignation and frustration. “I do not have a choice. Some of us must face the things we run from.” Her speech is clipped, her words pushing him further away, but he hears the resignation, the exhaustion. Jaime has never seen her this defeated. A long moment stretches between them. She stands, her voice thick as she tells him, “I should go to bed.” 

He only nods. There is a sparkle of unshed tears at the corner of her eye, which she reaches up quickly to brush away. “Good night, then,” he manages to say, her back already to him as she crosses to the tent. 

Jaime sits and watches the flames grow small, then smaller still, until they are nothing more than blushing embers in the dark. He crushes them under his boot, thinks of going to bed, but knows he will not be able to sleep. Adjusting his cloak around him, he steps away from the Lannister camp. A walk will clear his head. The camp is quiet, a strange realization, almost as if a hush had fallen over it. There is still the crackle of a few fires, the muffled laughter of men, but mostly all he hears is the freshly fallen leaves crunching under his boots, the sound of his breath, and the thoughts whirling through his head. He has been unable to absorb the news fully. It was a shock to his system as much as it was to hers, something which felt conjured out of thin air, shattering the fantasy he’s been living in. 

All evening his frustration has grown at Brienne’s stolid acceptance of her future. Every time he looked at her, he expected to see the trust and admiration in her eyes and instead it has been the tightening of her brow, the clenching of her jaw. He could feel her slipping further and further from his grasp. He knows her own defenses almost as well as his own, her walls high and difficult to climb. As their relationship has grown, she began to lower them a little, but today he returned from the joust to find hers rebuilt, remaining fully in place, tight against him.

His heart aches for her, for what she is going through. Anyone her father has chosen will not know her, will make her acquiesce, bow and scrape before them, stifle her spirit, her talents, wrap her up in an ill-fitting dress. Her betrothed may offer a place in his court, at his table, in his bed. But he will offer Brienne nothing she truly desires. No sword. No promise for adventure or a life well lived. No place for her in his heart. 

She is incredibly giving to others, but this is the greatest sacrifice, the giving of herself, her body, her person to someone she does not know, care for, trust, admire, or respect. He may understand her reasoning and still resent it. Tonight he nearly told her he loved her, watched the realization cross her face and still she remained unmoved, duty bound and honor bound, rather than letting love climb over the walls of her battlements. 

*

The sept is unfamiliar, not like the one she visited on Tarth as a child. She makes her way slowly down the aisle. Her heart leaps when she sees her father smiling proudly. Fond feelings for him bubble up in her stomach and she’s so focused on him, she does not notice the other man until it’s too late. Where his features should be, there is no mouth, no nose, no eyes. Only a stretch of skin. No face. She shies away from him as he reaches up to put the cloak on her shoulders, not wanting him to touch her, but her father frowns and she relents, chastened. The faceless man takes her hand--his skin is clammy--and Brienne has to keep herself from shuddering. A strange sound makes her jerk away and cover her ears. She realizes it’s emanating from  _ him _ . It sounds like a strangled scream. The man walks away, towards the doors of the sept, and it’s then Brienne notices his hair. Long, golden locks brush his shoulders. She claws at the cloak around her shoulders and when she pulls it off, there are the lions of House Lannister roaring their disapproval. “Jaime!” she calls, hoping he will turn back. 

“Brienne.” 

She startles, expecting to see her father, but she is in a tent, not the sept. Jaime is kneeling beside her in the dark. Her chest is heaving as if she’s been running, her hands shaky at her sides. 

“Jaime?” she asks, uncertain it is him. 

“You were screaming in your sleep.” He reaches up to brush her hair out of her face and the warmth of his hand against her forehead nearly brings her to tears. Somehow his simple gesture is everything they tried to say earlier and did not have the words for. The raw need and desire she carries for him scares her. Even in the dream, once she realized it was Jaime, her body ached for him. 

“I’m scared,” she says, her breathing still uneven. 

His forehead creases in the dim light and he traces the back of his knuckles gently along her jaw. “Move over,” he replies, as if it is the solution to everything, as if he is not climbing into bed with the woman who has hardened her heart against him. There is barely room on the bedroll for her, much less the two of them, but Jaime lays down behind her, the length of his body pressed against her back, his breath warm on her neck. The scent of him wraps around her, heady and comforting at once, and she reaches back to take his hand, drawing his arm around her waist. There is a swelling in her chest, a yearning for the way things might have been, the two of them tucked together. “You do not have to protect me, Brienne,” he whispers into the space between them. 

“And I never asked you to protect me either.” A bit of harshness creeps into her tone. 

“Gods, you are stubborn,” he mutters, but it’s said with a chuckle and he squeezes her hand. “If you will not let me protect you, then I have no choice but to support you. So if this is what you choose, then I will be there for you tomorrow, as much as it tears me apart.” 

The thought of Jaime standing beside her, unfailing in his loyalty to her even when she cannot choose him, breaks her. The armor around her heart begins to bend, to melt away. It seems that, finally, his words have made it past her defenses. She yields fully to him, giving in to the emotions she’s feeling. She rolls over to look at him, tears in her eyes. “Why?” 

“You know why.” 

She does know. Their love, which she has kept locked away in her heart, unable to believe it is real, has seeped into her entire being. Her bones and fingers, her eyes and smile when she looks at him, and she cannot pull it back. Now it feels as if it will haunt her, as if it will break her. “It hurts too much,” she whispers. 

He doesn’t say anything in reply, only nods and wraps his arms around her. Jaime holds her tightly, his chest rising and falling with her own. Perhaps by being so close, their hearts might speak to one another and begin to heal themselves. 

*

The next morning, she wakes to find Jaime gone, leaving her wondering if it all--the sept, him waking her--was a dream. She is more nervous than she was before her first tourney, but she dresses quickly, anxious to be in the company of others, to keep her thoughts at bay. The chill of the previous days has only worsened and she finds Addam and Daven shivering by the fire. Despite her stomach rumbling, she refuses breakfast, afraid she will not be able to keep it down.

When Jaime finally appears, her hands are clenched against the cold. He gives her a brief smile, but it does not quite reach his eyes, concern and worry firmly settled on his face. 

Steffon mentions the melee to her and she nearly laughs. She plans to compete, but her mind has been elsewhere for the past day, yet still she finds herself going through the motions of getting ready. To busy her hands, she polishes her armor. 

Jaime instructs the others to stay in the tent, but he waits with her outside. Despite the cold, the sun is brighter today, trying to keep the clouds at bay.

The wait feels interminable, but she is glad for Jaime’s presence beside her. Stolid, strong. The hour grows late and there is a moment where she thinks perhaps Ronnet Connington will not come at all, but as soon as it crosses her mind, she can hear someone approaching. Finally, he strides into the camp, the color of his hair nearly matching the griffins on his sigil. Jaime lets out a huff beside her but she steps forward, knowing she must welcome Ronnet as she would if she were at home, at Evenfall.  _ Welcome to my father’s hall.  _ She remembers the words her septa taught her for her first betrothal.

He is taller than she expected, nearly the same height as her, but his features are small and she feels a giant in comparison. The displeased look on his face as he assesses her is not surprising, but he sneers before he speaks and it calls up memories of Hyle Hunt, Ambrose, and all the others who mocked her. “I thought I might find you here.” His disdain makes it difficult for her to warm to him. She would find no equal partnership in his house. “So it is as they say. You keep company with the Lannisters.” 

Brienne should have expected this, and she can practically feel Jaime flinch behind her. “They are good men.”  _ No doubt they are better men than you. _

The way he is eyeing her makes her uneasy, but she will not falter. “You are not at all as your father promised. I do wish to receive my knighthood, so perhaps if we can come to an arrangement, this will work in both our favors.”

“An arrangement?” There is a note of polite surprise in her tone, but already she has no interest in whatever this man will attempt to offer her.

“Since you are so  _ fond _ of the Lannister camp, I feel it only fair I am able to bring whomever I like into my bed. I certainly would not allow a sow like you into it, not even if we wed.” 

“You are speaking to a highborn lady, ser.” Jaime’s voice rings out clear across the campsite. Ronnet looks up, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “You will not call her ugly names.” 

“What do you propose I call her then? Would the Lion of Lannister’s whore suffice?”

Before Brienne can react, Jaime charges past her, already upon Ronnet. She hears the slap, rather than sees it, but Connington is holding his cheek and looking at Jaime with a fury in his eyes. His arm swings and before Brienne can shout a warning, there is the sound of knuckles cracking as they meet their target, the dull thud of punches being landed. Jaime knocks Ronnet to the ground and is on top of him. “Jaime!” Her shouts bring Addam, Daven, and the others out of the tent. There is blood rushing out of Connington’s noise. “Stop! Please, stop.” She tugs at Jaime’s shoulder. 

Brienne helps him to his feet and Ronnet scrambles away from them. He spits, blood spewing onto the ground. Connington stands, swaying, and she sees it then, the rose clutched in his hand. He throws it at her feet, where it lands in the dirt. “That,” he snarls. “Is all you will ever have of me.” An ugly, merciless laugh escapes his lips, but it causes him to splutter, cough on his own blood. “Freak,” he mutters under his breath as he walks away. Jaime starts to go after him again, but Brienne places a hand at his elbow to stop him. 

“What in the seven hells were you thinking? Why did you do that?” She asks angrily, her hands shaking. “My father--”

“Your father can answer to me if he still believes Ronnet to be a good man,” his tone remains haughty, but then dips low. His words become gentle, comforting. “No one should be allowed to call you that. You are worthy of respect, Brienne.” 

As much as she wants to sink into his words, his touch, her instinct is to fight, to pull away. “I don’t need-”

“Protecting, I know,” Jaime interrupts and a smirk pulls at his lips. He knows her, Brienne realizes. She nearly laughs with the relief of it.  _ Gods, you are stubborn. _ His words from the night before come flooding back. A trait she possesses but does not like about herself, yet he somehow finds it endearing. 

Her eyes find the red mark where Ronnet’s punch connected with Jaime’s cheek. She wants to brush her fingertips across it, press her lips to it ever so gently. He is there, as he said he would be, standing beside her, standing with her through everything. And still, she doesn’t know how to do this. Finds herself falling back on manners and formality. “Thank you, Ser Jaime. For your efforts. I do not deserve them.” 

“You do.” 

She barely hears his murmured words, because she is plowing forward, returning to what she knows best--her duties--seeking to find reason and order there. “I shall return home to Tarth as soon as possible. If there is to be no union with the Conningtons, than my father will need my assistance in deciding how best to provide for our people until we can ensure funds.” 

Jaime listens, but broaches no argument. She is half waiting, she realizes, for his objections. Wondering if she imagined the man who laid beside her last night. Perhaps he thinks this is what she wanted, for her to carry out her duties as a daughter without protest from him. And yet it is his opinion she seeks, the one she values nearly as much as her own. Reluctantly, she steps towards the tent. She has not even taken a full stride, when the warmth of his hand encircles her wrist. Brienne turns to look at him and there is a nervous, shy smile on his face. “My lady, I--I thought...” Jaime stammers. He is always so confident. Whatever he has to say, he can admit to her without judgment, but as Brienne reaches to assure him, he continues. “Perhaps,” he says, taking a deep breath, “after the tourney concludes, we might travel to Tarth together.” 

Her stomach sinks. What he is offering is kind, but she doesn’t want him to see her home. Not when it is falling apart. “Why?” The word uncurls from her lips harsher than she intended. Jaime’s face falls as if he’s been struck. But he does not falter. 

“I have heard Tarth is beautiful.” He gives her a soft smile and his hand moves from where it circles her wrist, his fingertips whispering past her own as he lowers himself down onto one knee in the dirt. Her mouth drops open and she reaches for his hand to help him up, but he only takes it in his, making no move to rise. His gaze does not waver. “I love you, Lady Brienne.”

Her heart stutters, finally understanding, legs shaky. “ _ Jaime _ .” 

“It would be the greatest honor of my life to spend the rest of my days beside you. If you will have me.” Even though she is aware others move about camp around them, can feel the eyes of the Lannister men behind her, it is only the two of them. Her skin flushed, her jaw slack with surprise. One of Jaime’s eyebrows quirks slightly upwards, as if he were merely challenging her to spar, instead of asking for her hand, and there is a surge of happiness in her chest. 

“You  _ idiot _ .” She cannot help the smile pulling at her face, a laugh bubbling up in her throat. “Get up out of the mud.” 

He is smiling, too. A broad grin which lights up his whole face, making him even more beautiful in the early morning light.  _ Oh, I do not deserve him. _ His eyes twinkle, unable to resist teasing her as he always has. “Is that your answer?” 

“Will a kiss suffice?” Before Brienne is even finished with the question, he is on his feet in front of her, her hand still in his. Shyly, she steps into him, aware of the men watching, but Jaime does not hesitate. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulls her into a sweet, gentle kiss, but it turns into something else entirely. Passion, gratefulness. Love. The men let out cries of approval behind them. Brienne tucks her cheek against his to hide her coloring face. Jaime laughs in her ear, his lips brushing at her neck. “I love you,” she whispers, soft and low, so only he can hear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I've so enjoyed going on this journey with you. Thank you for your support and please find me on tumblr if you wish @aliveanddrunkonsunlight


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